


Honey Inside Your Hive

by saltsanford



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Allusion to past rape/sexual assault, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biting, Blindfolds, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Humiliation, Lack of Communication, Lemons, M/M, No Safeword, Panic Attacks, Spanking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford
Summary: Whentaking a breakturns into something far more complicated.Tucker and Wash on Chorus, falling into a relationships of sorts, and fumbling their way through it, every step of the way. COMPLETE.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As some of you know, I recently took the incomplete version of this fic down. I did not have the story fully outlined when I began writing - just some disjointed, vague ideas about what I wanted to accomplish - which led to some tone and tagging problems. I decided to finish it up, make some serious edits so that it fit more in line with my original vision, and post it all at once…and I’m much, much happier with it. While I normally don’t have an issue with stories that post in bits (heck, that’s what I myself usually do!) I think this particular story needed to be available in its entirety right away. Again, I apologize to anyone who felt that this fic wasn’t tagged properly last time, and I have done my best to make sure I tagged this version as appropriately as I could.
> 
> Just like last time, please be aware that this fic is not in my PMGITG universe, nor is Tucker and Wash’s dynamic here anything like it is in PMGITG/that verse. My goal here was to see what would happen if these two jumped into a messy, unhealthy, sexually-charged relationship without discussing it first or understanding what they were getting into. Take that as you will, and please read the tags. Please also note that this fic is appropriate for adults only.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read this story and gave feedback! Thank you especially to [Lem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112) and [Rosie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hakanaki), who read over the new first chapter for me; [Aki](http://archiveofourown.org/users/akisawana), who gave this fic some much needed fresh eyes, and [Taller](http://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale), who has been absolutely KEY in making this fic better, every step of the way. Any mistakes in this fic are my own, and are not the fault of my rockstar betas. Thank you also to the AD chat, for being so supportive during this whole writing process. You guys are good friends. I like you a lot.

Tucker thinks that getting stabbed in the gut is unequivocally the worst thing to ever happen to him.

It isn’t so much the actual stabbed part that made it the worst, although that certainly hadn’t been a barrel of laughs. That shit had  _ hurt _ , and it had taken approximately ten zillion years for Dr. Grey to allow him out of that hospital bed, and Tucker may or may not have been studiously avoiding any and all sharp objects ever since, but  _ still _ . It hadn’t crossed the realm into truly awful until he’d woken up one morning to see Wash sitting in a chair by his hospital bed, arms folded over his chest, glaring at Tucker as if he’d killed his cat. Or cats. Tucker is pretty sure Wash had two had one point. Whatever. Either way, it had nearly given Tucker a heart attack on the spot, but Wash had completely ignored his indignant cursing, rising to loom over Tucker’s bed in true horror movie fashion. “We need to work on your training. I’m scheduling the two of us for some private lesson time.  _ Every day _ .”

Tucker had been so horrified by the prospect that it hadn’t even occurred to him to turn that into a dirty joke, which was a tragedy, really. Getting Wash to blush had been one of his favorite secret hobbies ever since he’d realized just how easy it was to do. “Every  _ day _ ?” he’d sputtered instead. “What the fuck could we possibly have to work on every day?”

“Everything,” Wash had said ominously, before sweeping out of the room.

Tucker quickly found out that he wasn’t fucking kidding. They really  _ had _ been training everyday for the past month, and Tucker doesn’t think there’s anything they haven’t worked on. Swordplay. Knife evasion. Sparring in armor. Sparring out of armor. Weight training. Running. On and on and on, until Tucker is half-convinced that Wash is making up half of these tactical exercises just for fun.

Like now, for example. Wash had blithely waltzed into the training room earlier that afternoon and ordered Tucker out of his armor, which wasn’t nearly as hot as it could’ve been, before proceeding to drone on and on about  _ “retaining and detention techniques” _ and  _ “proper immobilization of an enemy soldier” _ and  _ “using a combination of preparation and innovation.” _ It wasn’t until Wash had fished a pair of handcuffs out of his gym bag that Tucker had perked up.

“O-ho! Now we’re talking—”

“It’s important that you know how to restrain an enemy,” Wash had continued, as if Tucker hadn’t even spoken, “so, I am going to show you several keys ways to quickly and efficiently handcuff someone—”

“Dude,” Tucker had interrupted, “I know  _ all _ about how to quickly and efficiently handcuff someone. Wanna see?”

He’d paid for his moment of fun, as Wash has been tossing him around the training room and handcuffing him in various positions for close to an hour. Tucker goes sprawling face-first into the mat for the fifth fucking time that afternoon and dully reflects that he can’t even remember the last time he’s used handcuffs before today. “Why the fuck aren’t we wearing armor again?” he grumps, as Wash shoves his head into the mat and yanks his arms behind his back to secure his wrists together. “I mean, I know this is probably a thinly veiled excuse to stare at my ass, but humor me.”

“We’re training out of armor,” Wash says, his knee jabbing into the small of Tucker’s back, “because if you are taken captive, no one is going to allow you to keep your armor.”

“So this is, what, training for the inevitable failed escape attempt?”

“It  _ would _ be, if your technique wasn’t so sloppy,” he says with a  _ tsk _ , before unfastening the cuffs and letting Tucker go. “You need to watch your six.”

“I am watching my six,” Tucker snaps. He holds out an impatient hand and Wash slaps the cuffs into them. “You’re too fucking fast!”

“ _ You’re _ fast, too,” Wash says, irritated. “You just aren’t  _ trying _ .”

“Hey, fuck you! Yes I am!”

“Well, you need to try harder,” Wash says. “You haven’t been able to restrain me once.”

“Oh, I can  _ restrain _ you alright,” Tucker leers. He waggles his eyebrows in impressive fashion and glances up at Wash expectantly, waiting for the exasperated huff, looking for the slightly flustered blush—

But Wash is neither huffing nor blushing. Wash, the fucker, is actually rolling his eyes, an expression of polite disbelief on his face, and Tucker folds his arms tightly across his chest, jerking his chin up. “You don’t think I can do it, do you?”

To his horror, the words come out, not defiant and dismissive, but, well— _ hurt _ . He snaps his jaw shut, horrified, but Wash is already pausing in the act of unscrewing the lid on his canteen, clearly thrown by the shift in Tucker’s tone. “What? No! Of  _ course _ I think you can do it, Tucker. You just have to  _ try _ and you’d be able to do any of these exercises to perfection—”

“Ugh, I  _ am _ trying! And that’s not what I meant!”

Wash frowns. “Then what did you mean?”

“I meant…” Tucker huffs, suddenly unable to meet Wash’s eye. “Look, I know you don’t  _ actually _ wanna be here, alright?”

“What?”

“I know you haven’t been sleeping.”

Wash’s face turns blank immediately, and he takes a careful sip of his water. “What—what does  _ that _ have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with everything!” Tucker knows he’s not making any sense, and he tosses the cuffs on a nearby weight bench, raking a hand through his dreads. “This is like, a  _ distraction _ for you. This bullshit training me stuff. You already  _ know _ I can’t do any of this shit—look. If you wanna like, fill every fucking second of your day with meetings and strategies and all other kinds of bullshit so you don’t have to sleep or sit down or whatever, fine, but don’t drag  _ me _ into it—”

“I  _ have _ to drag you into it!” Wash snaps. “I have to drag you into it because you’re the one who almost died—”

_ “I KNOW!” _

It comes out as a yell, and Wash falters. “Tucker—”

“I know,” Tucker continues, desperately trying to bring his volume down. “I  _ know _ , because you never stop reminding me. Dude, I need a fucking break! So do you! Jesus  _ Christ! _ ”

Tucker can immediately tell he hit a nerve, as Wash actually jerks back slightly. “I do  _ not _ need a break.”

“Uh, yes you fucking do.”

“I do not.”

“You do  _ too! _ ”

“I do—” Wash inhales, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Look. I know being stabbed scared you—”

“Who said anything about being scared?!”

“—but the only way you can prevent something like that from happening again is by doing this.” Wash jerks his head towards the handcuffs again. “By training. By…by trying to be better, which I know you  _ can _ be. It’s the only way you can gain some sort of control over the situation.”

“By training ourselves to death?”

Wash gives him a look. “We train for two hours a day, Tucker.”

“Yeah, and then you train like, ten  _ more _ hours with everyone  _ else _ on the fucking base!” Tucker knows he’s pouting, but he can’t help it. “No one  _ else _ has to do these stupid private remedial lessons, though.”

“They’re not  _ remedial _ —”

_ “Whatever _ ,” Tucker snaps. He snatches the handcuffs up. “Look, can we just finish this shit up so I can go shower? You can join me, if you want,  _ bowchi _ —”

“We still have another hour to go.”

_ “Waaaaaash _ , come  _ onnnnn _ —”

“Fine!” Wash takes a breath.  _ “Fine _ . You get those cuffs on me, and we can take a break. Be done for the day. How’s that?”

Tucker perked up. “Really? I just get these on you once, and we finish early?”

“Yep,” Wash says. “That requires you to actually stop complaining and do it, though.”

He smirks at Tucker then, standing up and stretching, and Tucker decides all at once that he’s had just about enough of Wash’s insufferable superiority for one afternoon. “Fine. You’re on, motherfucker.”

It isn’t easy. Wash is too good, too fast, dodging Tucker’s hits, slipping under his arms, tossing him around the training room as if he’s barely trying. Tucker doesn’t let up, though. He circles and stalks and lunges in, again and again, until he finally gets an opening.  It happens when Wash lunges forward and this time, instead of scrambling backwards, Tucker moves to meet him, ducking under Wash’s arm and catching him with a quick hammer fist to the solar plexus. The air leaves Wash all at once, and Tucker doesn’t hesitate, spinning back around and pulling him to the ground. They roll over each other a few times, rolling off the sparring mats and ending up near the weight benches, before Tucker gets Wash on his back, snaps the cuff to one wrist and yanks it high up over Wash’s head. It’s a struggle to get Wash’s other hand up there, but Tucker manages it, looping the chain around the leg of one of the weight benches nailed to the floor.

"Ha!" Tucker pants out triumphantly, sitting back to admire his handiwork. Wash yanks against the cuffs and actually growls in frustration and it's the most beautiful sound Tucker's ever heard. Wash’s arms look pretty goddamn good stretched above his head, which, you know. Added bonus and all that.

"Will you fucking look at that! Will you look at who just got one up on Agent-fucking-Washington?  _ That’s _ right,  _ it’s _ me!"

Wash huffs, but he can't quite hide the fact that he's seriously annoyed and probably a little bit humiliated, too. Good. "Well, it's about  _ time _ .”

A bigger man would refrain from gloating, uncuff Wash from the workbench instantly, and resume the training exercise. Tucker is not a bigger man, and he can't resist grabbing Wash's jaw and giving him the smuggest look he can muster. " _ What _ was that about watching your six, Wash? Seems to me like  _ you're _ the one who needs to watch your— _ OUCH _ !" Tucker pulls his hand back, seething, because Wash has just sunk his fucking  _ teeth _ into the web of Tucker's hand, right between the thumb and forefinger. "What the  _ fuck _ !"

Wash just smiles up at him, the cocky motherfucker. "Oh,  _ please _ . That didn't even hurt. Don't be such a baby, Tucker."

“You fucking  _ bit _ me! Who does that?!”

“You need to be prepared for anything, Tucker,” Wash says, slipping right back into his fucking drill sergeant voice, smug as shit, as if he’s not handcuffed to a weight bench. “You can’t let your guard down so quickly.”

“Be prepared for  _ what?  _ For Felix to bite me?” Tucker pauses, thinking. “Okay, fair, he would actually probably do— _ whoa! _ ”

He isn’t entirely sure what happens, only that Wash does some Matrix-bullshit lock around his legs that sends Tucker sprawling out on top of him. He tries to sit up, but Wash has the lock on tight, and Tucker sputters indignantly, his face pressed into the ground. “Like I said. Prepared. For. Anything.”

Tucker feels the words more than he hears them, as his chest is pressed right up against Wash’s and the vibrations thrum pleasantly through him. His flushes slightly, because—it’s a nice chest, okay? Firm and broad and all chiseled and shit. He can feel every fucking cut of Wash’s muscle against his own, can feel the flex of Wash’s abs, can feel Wash’s breath tickling his ear and that’s just  _ unfair _ . Their legs are all tangled together and Tucker needs to move,  _ now _ , before this gets dangerous.

Tucker presses himself up as much as he is able to on his hands, which isn’t a whole lot better, because now his face is hovering inches over Wash’s and he’s not sure how anyone is supposed to think straight in the face of all those freckles. He  _ still _ can’t get the fucking leg lock off, though, and Tucker huffs. “Dude, you can’t keep that lock on forever. I’m the one who has you handcuffed to the  _ floor _ . Give it up.”

“No.”

“No? Why not?!”

_ “You _ give it up.”

Tucker gapes at him. “I don’t have to give it up! I  _ won _ !”

“You did  _ not _ win.”

“I—Wash. I  _ totally _ won. I can do anything I want to you. Like, if you were an enemy, I could kill you and be done with it.”

He wraps a hand around Wash’s throat, squeezing lightly. Just enough to prove his point. Just enough to see a little defeat or resignation in Wash’s eyes, to get him to admit that yes, fine, Tucker won,  _ Tucker’s _ in control here—

Wash gasps a little, pulling against the cuffs, and Tucker jerks his hand away. “Sorry—”

It takes him several seconds to realize that there’s something in Wash’s eyes alright, but it’s not defeat or resignation. Not even close. It’s—it’s something  _ calm _ , and  _ relaxed _ , and it hits Tucker suddenly that he’s got Wash pinned, and helpless, and Wash  _ isn’t panicking _ . Paranoid, skittish, Wash is watching Tucker expectantly,  _ eagerly _ , as if he’s waiting for something—

Tucker laughs, trying to break the tension. “Dude, what, do you  _ like _ this or something?”

Wash flushes, that strange look vanishing at once. “Of course not. Are you going to let me up now?”

“That depends. Are you going to admit that I won?”

They glare at each other until Tucker shrugs. “Fine.” He untangles his legs from Wash’s, pushing to a stand in one fluid motion. Wash tracks him with his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving, what’s it look like?”

"Very mature, Tucker," Wash snaps, as Tucker saunters across the room to grab a towel and wipe the sweat from his face and arms.

He takes his time packing up his gym bag as Wash huffs and scowls across the room, but once he's finished dragging out the process for as long as possible, he still doesn't leave. There's something incredibly satisfying about watching Wash struggle with the handcuffs, the occasional curse word escaping his mouth. Tucker takes a seat on a nearby weight bench and spends about five minutes swiping aimlessly through his datapad, before he gives up the act and tosses it aside, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms across his chest. "You know, you could just  _ ask _ me to let you go."

"No," Wash says stubbornly, yanking against the handcuffs again as if that's going to do anything.

"Aww, come on. I'll let you up if you ask me nicely." Tucker cocks an eyebrow at him, smirking. "If you say  _ please _ ."

Wash pauses in fiddling with the cuffs to shoot him an incredulous glance. "Hasn't anyone ever told you it's rude to gloat?"

“I may have heard that at one point, buuut…” Tucker brightens. “Hey, look at that, I got you to to take a break! For like, five whole minutes! Ha! Can’t run off to a million training meetings now,  _ can _ you?”

Wash gives him a long-suffering looking.  _ “Tucker _ .”

“Ugh,  _ fiiiine _ .” Tucker looks at him suspiciously. “We’re really done training though, right? You said if I pinned you once, then we could be done.”

“Yes, we’re really done.”

Tucker sighs, but bends over him, unsnapping the handcuffs. Something flashes in Wash’s eyes the moment he unlocks them, something like—disappointment? He jerks back in case Wast gets any funny ideas about like, grabbing him and throwing him to the ground. But Wash sits up slowly, rubbing at his wrists, and Tucker rolls his eyes. “Seriously though, dude. You need a nap or something. Go take a fucking break.”

Wash doesn’t answer him, just pulls the handcuffs into his lap and looks at them strangely. Tucker shrugs, grabs his gym bag, and is at the door when—

“Make me.”

It’s so quiet that he almost doesn’t hear it, and Tucker freezes in the doorway before whipping around. “What?”

Wash’s face turns bright red at once, and he tosses the handcuffs aside. “Never mind—”

“Did you just tell me to  _ make _ you? Like,  _ make you  _ take a break? In the middle of the training room?  _ You? _ ”

“I said never  _ mind _ —”

“Holy shit.” Tucker drops his gym bag, taking several steps back towards Wash. “Ho- _ ly _ shit. You  _ did _ like that. You  _ liked _ being pinned down. Didn’t you? You kinky motherfucker, you’ve been holding out on me!”

Wash doesn’t answer, but his face finds a way to get even redder, and Tucker closes his eyes and says a brief  _ thank you _ to the porn gods, because holy _ fuck.  _ Okay. This is happening. He just needs to—to play it cool, and maybe, just  _ maybe _ —

He drops to his knees slowly besides where Wash is sitting up, then, holding his breath, swings one leg over his waist to straddle him. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for the discarded handcuffs, dangling them in front of Wash’s face. “These do it for you? Is that what it is?”

Wash sputters, eyes snapping up to Tucker’s before fixating at a point somewhere beyond his left ear. “What— _ no! _ ”

But his eyes dart towards the handcuffs again, bright and a little curious, and Tucker grins. Okay. He can work with this. It’s been a while since he’s tied anyone up and fucked them senseless, but he’s  _ so _ got this. “ _ I  _ think you’re _ ly _ -ing,” Tucker says in a sing-song voice. “Wanna know what else I think?”

Wash is still bright red, refusing to look at him, but his hands slowly go to Tucker’s hips and he’s not pushing him away. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“ _ I _ think,” Tucker says, swinging the cuffs back and forth, watching Wash’s eyes follow them like a pendulum. “I think you  _ liked _ being all helpless and shit. I think you’re just fucking  _ dying _ for someone to hold you down and put you in your place.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Wash says, but he doesn’t sound as if he believes it himself. “What, you think I want  _ you _ to—to put me in my place?”

Tucker shrugs.  _ “Well _ …” he presses a hand against Wash’s chest, pushing him back until he’s lying on the floor. “You  _ did _ just tell me to come back here and make you take a break. Happy to oblige, dude, if you’re game.”

Their eyes lock, until Wash slowly, slowly, lifts his hands up, placing them underneath the weight bench. He doesn’t look away as Tucker grins, cuffing his hands around the leg of the bench once more. It occurs to him that he should have taken Wash’s shirt off before slapping the cuffs on, but he settles for reaching for the hem and tugging it up to reveal all eighteen miles of Wash’s abs, because this is, apparently, the best day of Tucker’s entire life.

Wash inhales sharply as Tucker’s fingertips trail over his skin, and Tucker finds himself wondering, not how quickly he can get his mouth over every inch of Wash’s skin, but how long it’s been since Wash has had this. Skin to skin contact, and all that shit. He’s looking at Tucker so hungrily, as if he wants Tucker to devour him whole.

Tucker is all too happy to do so, and he shoves that depressing line of thought aside, brushing his lips every so slightly against Wash’s. It’s tempting to just shut his brain off and go crazy—Tucker’s already hard, and judging from the look on Wash’s face, he could probably get them both off in like two minutes—but Tucker wants to savor this. It’s been…well, it’s been a while, and besides. Having his CO tied up underneath him, just dying to suck Tucker’s cock? He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t had  _ that _ fantasy since his Basic training days.

And this—this was more than just any old CO. This was  _ Wash _ . Paranoid, uptight, always-in-control Wash, who is, for once, not yelling at Tucker for skipping training or forgetting to clean his armor, but is instead laid out underneath him, all flushed and pretty, waiting for Tucker to _ make him _ take a break.

Tucker is going to  _ savor _ this.

A wonderful, glorious thought occurs to him, and Tucker bites back a grin, pressing his lips to Wash’s. Wash gasps as if he’s been electrocuted before he moans, actually fucking moans into Tucker’s mouth, kissing him back hungrily.   Tucker gets his tongue in Wash’s mouth and tries not to lose his mind because Wash is a pretty fucking good kisser, and so is Tucker, if he does say so himself. The kiss is hot and deep and like, fucking  _ passionate _ , and when Tucker trails his hands up to wrap around Wash’s wrists for some added bondage, Wash moans again.

Tucker sits back up triumphantly, trailing his thumb over Wash’s bottom lip. Wash is breathing hard underneath him, eyes heavily lidded. Tucker settles his full weight deliberately in Wash’s lap and grinds there slowly, delighted to find that Wash is  _ definitely _ hard already. Wash gasps, hips jerking up against him, and Tucker smirks.  _ “Someone’s _ ready to go.”

“Like you—aren’t—ready to go—”

_ “Yeeeeeah _ , but…” Tucker grinds his hips down again, and it pulls a groan out of Wash that practically echoes around the training room. Which they are still in. Because Wash doesn’t care. Because he  _ wants _ Tucker, wants him so badly that he’s willing to let Tucker tie him up  _ in the training room _ .

It sends a strange thrill down his spine, the thrill of something more than just sex. He’s in control here. In control of himself, in control of Wash, in control of everything that happens in this room, and the thought is intoxicating. He trails his hand into Wash’s hair, making a fist and tugging slightly. Wash’s eyes flutter closed, and Tucker leans down, brushing their lips together and pulling back when Wash tries to move into the kiss. “Bet I can make you beg.”

Wash’s eyes open. “W-what?”

“You heard me.” Tucker grinds into him again. “You want it so bad I bet I could get you to beg for my cock.”

Wash scoffs, which Tucker thinks is pretty fucking rich, given his current position. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. I absolutely will not beg.”

Tucker shrugs theatrically. “Well, I mean…if you want to come, you will.”

Wash’s eyes widen slightly, and Tucker grins. “That’s right. You want my cock, you beg for it. You don’t beg, you don’t come.”

Wash flushes, but his eyes are still bright and curious, and he’s squirming underneath Tucker, hips moving up in tiny jerks. “I’m not begging.”

“We’ll fucking see about that.”

Tucker leans down, pressing their lips together. Wash gasps, his mouth opening for Tucker before he bites down hard on Tucker’s bottom lip, and Tucker yelps and thinks, oh, _ okay.  _  Wash wants it like  _ that _ , does he? Fine. Tucker can do rough. He retaliates, tearing his mouth away from Wash's and digging his own teeth into that delicious looking bit of skin between his shoulder and neck. He nips at the shell of Wash’s ear, then his neck again for good measure, before pulling back, panting. "Now, are you gonna  _ behave _ , or what?"

Wash's only response is to get Tucker in another leg lock that sends him sprawling, their bodies pressed flush together. Tucker can't stop a moan when Wash rolls his hips up in three deliberate circles, his body going limp as he presses his forehead into the floor beside Wash's head. Wash takes advantage, licking along the skin of Tucker's neck, biting at his collarbone, sucking at his ear, and before Tucker knows it his brain is turning to mush, hips rocking down hard against Wash's. It isn't until he lets out a keening whine and Wash chuckles in his ear that Tucker finally pulls back to glare at him. Wash looks entirely too triumphant for someone who supposedly has no control over this situation, and Tucker's about to remind him of that real fast.

He rallies, sitting up once more so that his full weight is settled in Wash's lap and grinding his ass down against Wash's dick, hands splayed out on his chest. Wash wants a challenge, Tucker will give him a challenge. Wash gasps, arching up into him, head tossed back as he squeezes his eyes shut, and Tucker lunges forward to grasp his jaw. "Uh uh uh. I don’t think so. Eyes on me.”

Tucker waits until Wash opens his eyes before lifting his hips slightly to sit up on his knees again. Wash’s own hips automatically follow Tucker’s until he forces them back down to the ground with a curse, and Tucker grins.

He cuts himself off with a strangled moan as Tucker reaches between their bodies and palms Wash’s cock through his shorts. “You know, Wash, if you were so eager for someone to put you in your place, you could’ve come to me  _ ages _ ago, dude.”

Wash opens his mouth to reply, but his words are lost in another moan and Tucker slides his hand inside Wash’s boxer briefs and wraps a fist around the base of his cock, sliding slowly up to the tip and back down again. Within less than a minute Wash’s hips are shoving up desperately into his hand. “Yeah, I think this is a good idea,” Tucker says conversationally, as Wash goes to pieces underneath him. “Since you’re bound and determined to be a little  _ shit _ , I think you’re gonna have to learn some manners.”

He swirls his thumb around the head of Wash’s cock and Wash moans, hips moving faster. Tucker lets him have that for a bit, lets him think that it really is going to be that easy, before pulling his hand away. “But by all means, keep up the attitude if you don’t wanna come.”

“Dammit,” Wash gasps, as he collapses back onto the training mat.  _ “Dammit _ , Tucker…”

“Yes?” Tucker asks innocently before leaning forward to press his lips to Wash’s ear. “Is there something that you want?”

Wash shudders as Tucker sucks at his earlobe and neck, mouth opening once more as Tucker presses their lips together.  Wash’s kisses are slightly different this time, less of a fight for control and more of an eagerness to get closer, to taste all of Tucker, and Tucker lets him. He slides his hands up Wash’s shirt, running them across the planes of Wash’s chest and abs, fascinated by the way the muscles bunch underneath his palms. “Damn, Wash,” he mutters into his mouth as he tweaks a nipple and Wash’s whole body jolts. “You’re so fucking  _ hot _ .”

He's laid his body out over Wash’s as their kisses progressed, and Wash is grinding their cocks together with a new desperation. “Oh, shit,” Tucker gasps, as Wash rubs against him just right. It would be so easy to keep this up, to keep moving together like this, to come right here against Wash’s leg—

Tucker forces himself to pull away, and it’s worth it when Wash curses in frustration. “Someone wants to come,” Tucker pants, while he tries to get ahold of himself.

“Isn’t that the point?” Wash asks, and then the fucker rolls his eyes  _ again _ and Tucker decides he’s had just about enough of that.

“The  _ point _ ,” Tucker snaps, and he slides his hips up so that he’s sitting high on Wash’s chest, “is for you to ask me nicely to let you come and so far, I haven’t heard a single real please. Might want to get on that, Wash.”

Wash snorts. “Like you’re not going to finish this if I don’t.”

“Oh, I’m going to finish alright,” Tucker says casually, and Wash’s eyes flick to his waist as Tucker pulls his own throbbing cock out and begins to stroke himself slowly. “You? I haven’t decided yet. Maybe you should start convincing me that I should let you.”

He rocks his hips forward so that the head of his cock brushes against Wash’s cheek, delighted when Wash blushes and starts to squirm, head tossing restlessly, legs sliding together.  _ “Tucker _ …”

_ “Wash _ ,” Tucker mimics, and lets his hip sway forward so that his cock nudges against Wash’s parted lips this time. Wash does not pull away, just looks at him with wide and wanting eyes, and Tucker smirks, winding a hand in Wash’s hair and tugging just hard enough. “Go on. Let’s see if you can do anything with that mouth besides bark orders all d— _ aaaaaay _ ….”

He trails off into a moan as Wash tilts his head forward as much as he’s able to and sucks the head of Tucker’s cock into his mouth. Tucker lets go of Wash’s hair and falls forward onto his palms against the weight bench, panting as Wash sucks him in deeper and deeper and deeper until he can feel Wash’s chin brushing his balls. “Oh, holy fuck,” Tucker groans. Wash hums around his cock, somehow managing to sound smug, and it’s all Tucker can do to not come on the spot. There’s no way he’s giving it up this soon.

Tucker sits back a little as Wash begins to bob his head as best he’s able and drinks in the sight: Wash’s hands bound high above his head, mouth obscenely full as his lips slide and down Tucker’s shaft, chest heaving with big breaths. “Wash,” Tucker moans as he fucks Wash’s face a little harder, one hand coming to clench in his hair. “You look—so fucking good—with my cock—down your throat— _ hollllly _ shit…”

He trails off as Wash drags his teeth lightly down Tucker’s dick and Tucker gives up trying to talk. He certainly isn’t quiet though, as Wash sucks him off, a steady stream of gasps and groans falling from his mouth. All too soon he’s bent over Wash again, forehead pressed into the weight bench above them as his hips snap down repeatedly against Wash’s face. His belly tightens in warning, and Tucker barely has time to sit back onto his heels, shaking, and pull out of Wash’s mouth with a pop. He wraps a hand around his dick with a final curse, and comes hard on Wash’s face and neck.

It’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen, Wash’s mouth still hanging open, eyes blowing wide in indignation and want as his face turns bright red. Tucker jerks himself off until he’s spent before wiping himself off on Wash’s cheek, and groans as Wash turns his head slightly to lick at Tucker’s dick. “Good,” Tucker says weakly, everything tingly and oversensitive.  _ “God _ , that was good…”

Wash keeps going, swirling his tongue obediently around Tucker’s dick until Tucker sits back on his heels, clenching his hands into fists to hide just how badly they’re shaking. He focuses instead on the way Wash is writhing beneath him, chest heaving, eyes dark and full of need. Tucker’s come is splattered on his cheek, and as he watches, a bit of it drips off Wash’s chin to slide down the pulse of his throat.

“Good,” Tucker whispers again. He wipes some of the cum off of Wash’s cheek and throat with his thumb and lifts it to Wash’s lips for him to lick off,.. Tucker runs his other hand through Wash’s hair, and Wash presses into it, sighing. “Good boy. Looks like you can take orders as well as you can give them, after all.”

Tucker slides down a little so that he’s kneeling in between Wash’s legs. He wonders if Wash is even aware of the way he spreads them open for Tucker, or the way his hips roll up towards him. Tucker smooths his hands down Wash’s side, resting them on Wash’s hips while he squirms, hips twitching in Tucker’s hands. “Tucker…”

“Yeah?”

Wash squeezes his eyes shut, head tossed as he tries to get his breathing under control. Tucker drags both of his thumbs up the creases of Wash’s hips, grinning as Wash jolts. “God…Tucker…”

“As much as I like hearing you moan my name…” Tucker shifts his weight, letting his knees brush the insides of Wash’s thighs. “I’d rather hear a  _ please _ , Wash.”

Some of the heat cools in Wash’s eyes, and his eyes flutter open. “What?”

Tucker’s hands leave his hips, running up and down Wash’s thumbs, across his abs, everywhere except where Wash wants them. “You heard me. You know the rules. You beg, you get to come.”

“I’m not…” Wash inhales sharply, clearly trying to gather himself, and Tucker makes it just a little more difficult by letting his fingertips trail briefly across Wash’s dick. “I’m— _ fuck _ —not going to beg you…”

“Then you don’t get to come.”

Tucker removes his hands from Wash entirely, watching as he squirms. He’s coming undone in a way that Tucker has never seen before, little fault-lines appearing by the minute in that stoic exterior, and he just needs a little more pressure before he breaks. Tucker wonders what that would look like. “We don’t have all day, Wash. Someone could come in here  _ any _ moment.”

Wash’s cheeks redden at that, but to Tucker’s surprise, his mouth falls open, hips twitching up. “I could leave you here, just like this,” Tucker continues experimentally. “Shit, it could be  _ hours _ before someone comes and finds you. You’d have all that time to think about how badly you want me to fuck you.”

He puts his hands back on Wash as he speaks, one palm cupping Wash’s cock lightly, the other reaching up to tweak one of his nipples. Wash arches into both points of contact, and Tucker begins to stroke him slowly through his pants as he continues. “Everyone knows we’ve been training. Everyone would know it was me who go you all hot and bothered. You’d be so desperate you’d beg for them to touch you, but you’d be thinking of  _ me _ and they’d all know it…”

Wash is shoving himself up harder into Tucker’s palm now, little moans falling from his lips, and Tucker gives him a little more pressure. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You would’ve fucking  _ loved _ if someone had come in here when my cock was down your throat so they could see what a slut you were for me…so they could hear you beg…bet you sound real pretty begging, Wash, so let’s have it.”

But Wash still doesn’t give in. Tucker thinks he could probably push farther, could keep creating these little fault lines until he shattered, but he thinks it might be more fun to teach Wash a lesson, instead. He stops touching Wash, arching an eyebrow. “Come on, last chance…”

That delightful blush is back on Wash’s cheeks, but he just sets his jaw stubbornly. Fine. Tucker slides further down the length of his body until he’s kneeling in between Wash’s legs, sliding his lips along Wash’s abs as he goes. Wash inhales sharply as Tucker runs his hands up the inside of his thighs, fingertips toying with the edges of Wash’s shorts as he looks up at him slyly.

The change in Wash’s demeanor when Tucker mouths at him through his shorts is almost immediate. Wash’s hips shove up against Tucker’s face even as everything else in him seems to melt with nothing more than a shuddering gasp. “Oh, God…”

“Hmmmmm,” Tucker murmurs. He turns his cheek to nuzzle at Wash’s cock and smirks up at him. “Well well  _ well _ . Looks like someone wants their own dick sucked.”

“Who—doesn’t?” Wash groans, still bound and determined to be a fucking brat, and Tucker pulls away with a frown. “I’m just— _ saying _ —”

Tucker yanks Wash’s shorts and boxers down just far enough and licks a long stripe up the side of Wash’s cock. It shuts Wash up at least, so Tucker does it again down the other side. He drags his lips up and down Wash’s dick several times, lets his teeth graze across Wash’s balls, and even briefly sucks the tip of Wash’s head into his mouth. It’s almost too easy to turn Wash into a gasping, panting, mess, but he revels in it anyway, keeping every one of his ministrations light and tantalizing and barely there.

“More,” Wash gasps, when Tucker sucks him ever so briefly into his mouth a final time. He tugs once against the handcuffs and falls back. “Tucker,  _ more _ …”

Tucker grins, swirling his tongue around the head of Wash’s cock. “What’s that, Wash? You want more?”

“Yes,” Wash whines. He strains towards Tucker but Tucker holds his mouth just out of Wash’s reach, panting damply so that Wash can still feel his breath. “God, yes—Tucker, I want more…”

Tucker sighs, letting his breath ghost out hot and slow. “That’s too bad. You don’t get more.”

Wash makes a panicked noise of protest as Tucker takes his mouth away and pulls Wash’s gym shorts back up over his cock. “No—wait—Tucker—“

“You would’ve gotten more,” Tucker continues, “if you had just asked me nicely when I told you to. I would’ve sucked you off however you wanted, and you could’ve come in my mouth and it would’ve felt really fucking good, because I give awesome head.”

“Oh—Tucker, wait, wait,” Wash gasps, as Tucker crawls back up his body to hover over him. “I’m asking—I’m asking nicely— _ please _ —“

Finally. Tucker winds a hand in his hair and tilts Wash’s head back so that he can nip at Wash’s neck. “Instead,” he mutters, “instead you had to be a fucking brat, so you don’t get any head. You just get to go back to your room and jerk off thinking about just how amazing it would’ve felt.”

Wash writhes underneath him, desperate and wanting and thoroughly wrecked. “Please,” he keens. “Please—Tucker—don’t leave me like this, God I—I want to come, I really want to come, please, please, please—”

“There,” Tucker whispers. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He pauses, lets the moment sit, then sighs once more. “Too little too late, though. I  _ guess _ I can let you come, but…” He stretches his body out over Wash’s, sliding one of his thighs in between Wash’s to press against his cock. “But you can get yourself off.”

Wash groans, equal parts relief and frustration as he grinds his dick against Tucker’s leg. Tucker doesn’t pull away, but he does nothing to help him either, just lets Wash rub against him with increasing desperation until he pauses in his efforts, panting. “Tucker…I can’t…I can’t come like this…it’s not enough, please—I just need your hand—your mouth…”

“You don’t get my hand or my mouth,” Tucker snaps, biting hard at his ear. “This is what you get. This is  _ all _ you get. If you come, fine, if not…well…you had your chance.”

“Dammit,” Wash gasps, but he lifts his hips to try again. “Fuck you…”

“You wish,” Tucker purrs into his ear, then pulls back to watch. Wash ruts frantically against his leg, face twisting in concentration, the occasional grunt or curse escaping his mouth. They stay like that for nearly ten minutes, until Wash’s legs are locked around Tucker’s thigh and he’s shaking and biting his lip and there are actual fucking tears of frustration in his eyes. Tucker just smirks down at him, drinking in the sight, pressing little kisses to Wash’s throat. “C’mon,” he murmurs against Wash’s sweat-slicked skin. “C’mon, you can…”

Wash finally comes with a moan so loud he’s practically shouting. Tucker pulls away the second he feels Wash start to come, doesn’t even let him ride his orgasm out, and Wash’s hips roll against empty air, cum soaking through the front of his gym shorts.

Tucker stands, looking down at Wash and ready for a final taunt, but the words die on his tongue. Wash is looking back at him, mouth hanging slightly open, lips bitten red, blue eyes dark and wet. He has several hickeys on his neck, his shirt has ridden up nearly to his chest, and there’s cum all over his face and his shorts from an orgasm that can’t have been very satisfying—

But Wash looks somehow relaxed, bones melting into the mat, head heavy and fists uncurling from where he’d clenched them. He looks— _ he looks _ —

Pretty. He looks so goddamn fucking pretty and all Tucker wants is to crawl right back on top of him and wreck him  _ again _ .

Instead, he leans down undoes the handcuffs, stepping back quickly, but Wash doesn’t even lift his wrists out of them right away. “Maybe next time,” Tucker says, hastily interjecting some bravado back into his voice, “you’ll learn how to ask nicely for something when you’re told.”

He turns on his heel to go and is nearly at the door when Wash’s voice sounds, breathless but still defiant. “We’ll see about that.”

Tucker pauses with his hand on the doorknob to look back at Wash, who is sitting up and wiping at his face with the bottom of his t-shirt. “You know, Wash, keep it up and I might start thinking about giving you another lesson. One that involves me bending you over my knee, if you get what I’m saying.”

Wash’s cheeks darken again, eyes blowing wide with frustration and curiosity and desire, and Tucker fixes the memory in his mind before turning to leave. He pauses for a moment outside the training room and presses his back to it, mind reeling with confusion, bones singing with something dark and thickly sweet, something alive and far from sated.


	2. Chapter 2

“Wash, you need to get  _ laid _ .”

Wash startles, sputtering as he whirls around to face the speaker. He very nearly drops his gun, too, because sharply honed instincts and years of wartime experiences are apparently nothing in the face of one Franklin Delano Donut and his knowing expression. “How…do you know about that?”

He’s instantly kicking himself when Donut’s whole face lights up.  _ “Oooooooh _ , know about  _ what? _ ”

“Nothing,” Wash says hastily. “There’s not—I didn’t—”

“Oh, Wash!” Donut links their arms together, dragging Wash away from the group of soldiers he’s currently training. “ _ Is _ there someone? You can tell me! I  _ swear _ , I won’t tell a soul. Is it Perkins?”

Wash blinks, distracted. He pointedly avoids looking in Tucker’s direction, eyes traveling around the room until they land on one of the Fed soldiers. “Who is…oh, Private Perkins? Donut,  _ no _ .”

Donut shrugs. “I’m just  _ saying _ . From what _ I _ saw, he wanted you to mount him in more ways than one when you were helping train those soldiers at the Fed base. Not that he was the  _ only _ candidate, but—”

“Donut…” Wash rubs his forehead. “No. There’s no one. I meant….why do you think I need to…”

“Get laid?” Donut rolls his eyes.  _ “Because _ , Wash, you’re wound up tighter than I’ve ever  _ seen _ these days, and believe me, I know a little something about _ too tight _ . You need to go have some fun. Trust me on this.”

“Donut, trust  _ me _ . I do not need to get laid.”

“Why?”

_ Because I’ve jerked off twice a day for the past week thinking about Tucker cuffing me to that weight bench again. Or a bed. Or the table in the war meeting room for everyone to see— _ “Because,” he says loudly, turning away slightly so that Donut can’t see how red his face is growing. “I’m…too busy.  _ Really _ .”

_ “Alriiiiiight _ ,” Donut says with a theatric sigh. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me!”

“I—” Wash eyes him, alarmed. “Wait,  _ what? _ ”

“So that I can help find you someone!” Donut says. He pats Wash’s arm.  _ “Trust _ me. I think I know your type.”

“Okay, Donut, but really—CAPTAIN TUCKER,  _ WHAT _ ARE YOU DOING?”

Tucker jumps from across the training room where fifteen cadets are clustered around his datapad, giggling and not even trying to be subtle about it. He rolls his eyes when he catches Wash’s furious gaze. “Dude,  _ chill _ . We’re just taking a little break. You know. A  _ break? _ ”

He throws Wash a wink—which, blessedly, Donut does not see—before turning back to his datapad. The cadets follow suit, and after a momentary hesitation, Wash starts forward. He can’t have this. They’re only twenty minutes into today’s session and if he allows them to start goofing off now, nothing will get done. He storms across the room, snatching the datapad out of Tucker’s hand. “I want fifty push-ups, Captain Tucker.”

“Hey!” Tucker grabs for the datapad, but Wash holds it high out of his reach. “ _ Dick! _ ”

“You can have it back,” Wash says primly,  _ “after _ you complete your training for the day.”

For a long moment, Tucker holds his gaze, eyes flashing with a brief anger that sends a dangerous thrill down Wash’s spine. The anger is gone almost at once, replaced by a small smirk playing at the corner of Tucker’s mouth, so small that Wash isn’t entirely sure it’s there. His mouth has gone dry, heart hammering in his ribcage as Tucker takes the smallest of steps forward. “A break after, then?”

“ _ Fifty push-ups _ , Captain,” Wash growls. “ _ Now _ .”

Tucker steps forward, away from the group, and a little thrill runs through Wash again, but all Tucker does is get down in a plank position, holding Wash’s gaze all the while. “You gonna count them for me, too?”

There’s something in those words that makes his gut pull. Wash folds his arms across his chest, clenching his fingers to fists, and levels a glare at Tucker. The moment hangs in between them.

“One,” he says calmly, and Tucker begins to move.

* * *

“So then he goes _ , ‘you gonna count them for me, too? _ ’’ Wash throws up his hands. “I mean, what am I  _ supposed _ to do when he acts like this?”

Carolina eyes him with interest over her dinner. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Count for him.”

“Yes, I did.” He huffs when she rolls her eyes. “He was acting like a child, Carolina!”

“Sounds like he wasn’t the only one,” Epsilon mutters from where he’s perched on Carolina’s water glass. Wash ignores him.

“Wash….” Carolina sets her spoon down and props a chin in her hand, regarding him closely. “Did you ever think he might respond to you better if you didn’t discipline him in front of other people significantly more than you do any one else?”

“What…I do  _ not _ discipline him more than I do anyone else! That’s  _ absurd _ .”

“Eh…” she waves her a free hand a little. “Debatable. You have him train more than anyone.”

“What—it’s not debatable! It’s a  _ fact _ . And that’s only because Felix is bound to be fixated on him now, and—”

“Hey, quick question,” Espilon asks casually, “just uh, real quick, why did you ask her opinion if you weren’t gonna  _ shut the fuck up and listen to it? _ ”

Carolina waves her hand at Epsilon absently and he folds his arms across his chest, annoyed. “Wash. You  _ do  _ seem to be a bit harder on Tucker than the others. Particularly over the last week or so. It’s….” She shrugs. “Well, to be frank, it’s almost as if you’re  _ trying _ to get him to snap.”

“Snap how?”

“You tell me.”

“It’s…that’s not…. _ look _ , he just has so much potential and if he would just try…I’m not the one…watching videos on his…” Wash’s own shoulders slump. “Do you really think I’m too hard on him?”

“ _ I _ think that Tucker doesn’t respond well to be criticized in front of others.”

He gives her a look. “ _ No one _ likes that, Carolina. We were criticized all the time in front of each other in Freelancer, and—”

“And look how that turned out.”

That shuts him up, guilt pooling uncomfortably in his gut. He casts his eyes downward at his own dinner, fiddling with his uneaten soup until Carolina’s hand reaches across the table to give his wrist a quick pat. “I do it too, Wash.”

Wash doesn’t ask her to specify, doesn’t think he needs to. He thought he’d left at least this part of Freelancer behind, but apparently it’s not so easily done. “I…I guess you have a point.”

“Look.” Carolina finishes the last of her soup, and gathers up her tray. “Just talk to him, alright? Maybe the two of you can….come up with some sort of command system that works for you both.”

“And stop annoying the rest of the army in the process,” Epsilon adds brightly.

Wash gives him the finger when Carolina’s not looking, then sighs. “Alright, alright. Thanks, boss.”

* * *

He’s not nervous.

He’s absolutely one hundred percent  _ not nervous, _ walking to Tucker’s room that night. Not at  _ all _ . He isn’t anxious about having this conversation, and he certainly isn’t  _ excited _ at the thought of being alone with Tucker for the first time since the training room.

_ Don’t think about the training room, _ Wash tells himself firmly, but it’s too late. Which is ridiculous, because he’s thought about that damn training room entirely too often lately: the feel of Tucker’s lips dragging up the side of his cock, his tongue in Wash’s mouth, his thigh between Wash’s legs. He needs to stop, because he’s spent far,  _ far _ too much time wondering just why those cuffs snapping around his wrists had unlocked something else in his bones, something foreign and liquid and utterly irresistible.

Tucker opens his door while Wash is still fidgeting outside of it, rubbing at the back of his neck and rehearsing his speech in his head. He’s utterly unprepared to see Tucker standing there, dressed in nothing but his fatigues, his bare chest revealing ten million miles of gorgeous brown skin that Wash wants to put his mouth  _ all over _ —

He steps back so quickly that he stumbles, hastily righting himself as Tucker stares. “Hello, Captain Tucker.”

Tucker arches an eyebrow, leaning against the door frame and folding his arms across his chest. Wash absolutely does not track the motion with his eyes. “What’s up?”

_ Get a grip. _ Wash shoves every thought of their last encounter down tight and squares his shoulders. “I want to talk to you.”

Tucker’s arms slip down to his sides as the leer vanishes, and he rolls his whole head. “Ugh, about  _ what _ ?”

“About earlier.”

“What’s to talk about?” Tucker snaps. “About how you were a dick during training? That’s nothing new or revolutionary, dude.”

“Tucker..” Wash takes a breath. “Can we just talk? Please?”

Tucker’s face cracks into a grin at that word, and Wash feels his face flush. Why,  _ why _ , did he have to be cursed with the brightest blush known to man? Why is he blushing in the first place? Why—

“Fine,” Tucker says innocently, “since you asked so  _ nicely _ .”

Wash grits his teeth and follows Tucker into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Tucker lifts an eyebrow. “Closing the door already?”

“I thought we might have a private conversation,” Wash says coolly. “I—look. I wanted to talk to you about earlier, and how you act when the cadets are around—”

“Oh my  _ god _ .” Tucker rolls his eyes, flopping theatrically on his bed. “Is this about that stupid datapad thing?  _ God _ , we were just taking a break for a second—”

“I— _ no _ . It’s not about that. I mean, it is, but—”

“Great.” Tucker makes a go-on gesture with his hand. “Well, go on. Let’s get the lecture over with.”

Wash frowns suddenly annoyed with how rapidly he seems to be losing control of this situation. “This isn’t  _ funny _ , Tucker. You are a Captain in this army and you are supposed to be setting an example. When you start screwing around, it lets the other cadets think that they can screw around, too.”

“Oh, please,” Tucker snaps. “Like everyone else isn’t screwing around anyway. Who  _ cares _ if we goof off a little if—“

“Because this is  _ serious! _ Because we are in the middle of a war, and need I remind you that you—”

“Wash, if you’re about to remind me that I was stabbed, again—”

“Well, you were!”

“Ughhhh!” Tucker sits back up. “Didn’t we have this conversation already? Don’t you ever get tired of hearing yourself spout the same bullshit over and over?”

“It’s not bullshit, it’s your life!”

“Fine! I’ll take training more seriously or whatever. Happy? Can you leave me alone now?”

Wash pauses, a bit thrown. “I…yes. If you’re serious.”

“I’m serious.” Tucker waves a hand. “There ya go. There’s the door.”

Wash hesitates. He hesitates for far too long, and he’s still hesitating when a sly grin spreads across Tucker’s face. “I said, there’s the door.”

“I’m going,” Wash says, and he takes a step backwards.

Tucker tilts his head. “Gotta say, though. You embarrassing me in front of the whole fucking army all week long is pretty rich, if you ask me. You know. Recent events considered and all.”

Wash folds his arms across his chest. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It  _ means _ ,” Tucker says, rising slowly to a stand, “that I wonder just what everyone else would think if they could’ve seen you begging me to suck your dick last week.”

A spectacular flush heats Wash’s face, and for several long moments, he can’t remember how to speak. “That was—”

He stumbles there, waiting for Tucker to interrupt him, but Tucker says nothing. He just stands there, looking at Wash smugly, and Wash takes a deep breath and counts to ten.

Or at least, that’s what he  _ intends _ to do. What he actually does is reach out and fist a hand in Tucker’s shirt, yanking him closer until they’re inches apart. “You’re not  _ listening _ to me,” he says lowly. “Look, I just wanted to come in here and  _ talk _ to you and—”

Tucker moves forward until Wash’s back hits the wall, his fingers still curled in Tucker’s shirt. Tucker slams his palms on the either side of Wash’s head, half of his mouth rising in a smirk. “Yeah, I don’t think you came in here to talk.”

“To  _ talk _ ,” Wash continues determinedly, “about disciplinary measures that could work for us both.”

“Disciplinary measures,  _ hmm? _ ”

“That’s right.”

“That’s cool,” Tucker says, leaning closer, “might have a few ideas on that myself, if you catch my drift.”

It’s impossible not to catch Tucker’s drift when his voice has dropped to something low and velvety, when he’s eying Wash as if he wants to eat him alive. Tucker lifts a hand, trailing his fingers lightly along the lines of Wash’s neck. He inhales sharply as Tucker leans in and brushes their lips together, grinning when Wash tries to follow him back. Tucker curls his fingers under Wash’s chin, running his thumb along Wash’s lips, and then, Wash isn’t sure what comes over him, but he leans forward and bites down on Tucker’s thumb, hard.

“Ow!” Tucker’s eyes widen as he yanks he hand back, and Wash feels a little thrill of excitement as anger and lust bloom in Tucker’s eyes. Tucker winds a hand in his hair and twists Wash’s body around, pressing him chest first into the wall. Wash shoves back against him, but Tucker merely tightens his fingers and holds Wash fast. Wash can feel Tucker’s breath on his ear, can feel his skin burning in all of the places they’re touching, and when Tucker’s other arm wraps around his chest, Wash has to stop himself from groaning. He’s losing control, fast—of this situation, of his body, of his common sense, all of it over ridden by the desire to push, push, push. He twists his head to the side and nips again at Tucker’s wrist, who curses, shoving him harder against the wall.

“You  _ mother _ fucker,” Tucker growls in his ear. “You fucking yell at me all week, then come in here and try to throw your authority around, then you fucking  _ bite _ me? The fuck is with you and biting, anyway? It’s like you  _ want _ me to put you in your place—”

He stops, and Wash pants against the wall. Christ, he’s fully hard already, alternating between grinding his cock against the wall and shoving his hips back against Tucker’s. Tucker’s hand tightens in Wash’s hair and he lets out a strangled gasp at the sensation, head falling back against Tucker’s shoulder, exposing his neck.

“Holy shit,” Tucker marvels. “You  _ do _ want that, don’t you? Is _ that _ why you’ve been acting like a fucking asshole? You  _ want _ me to punish you?”

Wash squeezes his eyes shut, nodding hard. Everything is too bright, too loud, too sharp—he needs it to stop, to soften, he needs to  _ push _ , he needs—

“Uh uh.” Tucker gives his hair a yank, just enough to hurt, and Wash gasps. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Wash doesn’t even realize he’s reaching a hand down to palm his cock until Tucker’s fingers fasten around his wrist, pinning it to his chest. He pulls Wash away from the wall slightly so that he can’t grind against it, and Wash bites his lip, hard, before speaking. “I..I… _ yes _ . I want you to punish me.”

Tucker hums a little in his ear, releasing Wash’s wrist and dragging the flat of his palm down Wash’s stomach. “ _ Do _ you?”

He reaches his hand inside Wash’s waistband and grips his cock, jerking it slowly. It tears a whine from Wash’s throat, and his hips stutter forward into the warmth. He’s losing it already, but god, he’s needed this, needed this so badly he can barely think straight. “Yes,” he gasps, desperate, wanting, “yes, _Tucker,_ _please_.”

“See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?” He moves them away from the wall and nudges Wash insistently towards the bed, one hand still pulling at his cock. “Lean down. Put your hands on the bed and don’t move them.”

Wash opens his eyes, gaze still directed at the ceiling. The lights are still too bright, but he forces them to remain open anyway. “No.”

Tucker’s hand stills on his cock, and Wash whimpers, shoving his hips forward. “No?”

“You—heard—me,” Wash pants. He has to bite his lip to keep another groan from escaping as Tucker removes his hand completely, resting it on Wash’s hip instead.

“You know, Wash…” Tucker gives Wash’s hair another hard tug. “I kinda think you’ve forgotten what happened last time you didn’t do what I told you to. Stop being a fucking brat and put your goddamn  _ hands _ on the  _ bed _ .”

Wash’s eyes flutter closed as Tucker mouths at his neck, teeth grazing over his collarbone. It’s almost impossible to think, but he feels an all too familiar urge cutting through the fog in his mind, the urge to fight, to disobey, to never give in—

But also, this time, the curiosity and desire to see what would happen if he  _ did _ .

It takes him several moments to remember how to speak and when he does, his words are heavy and strangled. “Make me.”

Tucker chuckles into his ear. “Oh- _ ho _ , you’re really asking for it, huh?”

Before Wash can get his bearings, Tucker shoves him forward face first onto the bed. Wash’s head is fuzzy with desire, slowing down his reflexes, and Tucker follows him down, his weight settling on Wash’s hips. Tucker stretches himself out over Wash’s, using his weight to hold him there, and before Wash can reverse their positions, Tucker’s hands are around his wrists, yanking them up above his head.

Wash realizes all at once what’s about to happen, but it’s too late, and he doesn’t want to stop Tucker anyway. In a few quick motions, Tucker secures his wrists to the metal bars with what looks like a belt. It’s sturdy, but nothing that Wash can’t get out of with a little time. Even as he’s thinking this, Tucker’s weight leaves him for only a moment before Wash feels his hands around his waist, and he yanks Wash’s own belt off, wrapping that around his wrists for extra security.

Wash yanks hard, but the bindings hold. Tucker’s weight is still gone and when Wash twists his head, he can’t see him. “Tucker,” he says, and there’s a sort of weird panic brewing up in his chest—

But Tucker’s weight is back, his body laying out flush against Wash’s, trapping him completely and Wash sighs in relief. “Now, that’s better,” Tucker murmurs into his ear.

For a moment, Tucker does nothing more than grind his own erection against Wash’s ass and suck lazily at his neck. Wash lets his head fall to the mattress between his bound hands, mouth opening as he rocks against Tucker as best he can. It isn’t much: he can barely move with Tucker’s weight on top of him, and he can feel the edges of himself softening, body relaxing, desire building—

Tucker sits back suddenly, yanking Wash’s hips up high in the air. A whine tears involuntarily out of Wash’s throat at the loss of friction and he writhes, trying to drop his hips back to the mattress, grind against Tucker,  _ anything _ . Tucker makes a noise of disapproval and jerks Wash’s hips up in the air again. “Hold still.”

The commanding note in his voice breaks through the fog in his head, and Wash tries his best to stop squirming. He tilts his head back to look at Tucker, who is sitting up on his knees, hands wandering over Wash’s ass. “Christ, it’s like you don’t want me to do anything at all. I  _ could _ just leave you here, you know. Is that what you want?”

Wash shakes his head frantically, maintaining eye contact with Tucker. “Alright, then. I’ve got two options for you, Wash, and I’m only going to tell them to you once. Got that?”

Tucker grins at Wash’s nod. “Alright. Option one, since you’re being such a fucking  _ brat _ , is that I spend the next few hours keeping you just like this, right on the edge, and you don’t get to come.”

He can’t stop the noise of protest, and Tucker frowns. “What, you don’t like that? Too fucking bad. Keep it up and I’ll do it.”

Wash grits his teeth, swallowing another moan down tight, and the seconds tick by before Tucker continues. “Option two,” he says silkily, sliding a hand up Wash’s spine, “is for me to fuck you.”

Wash’s eyes flutter closed in relief, arching into Tucker’s touch as he nods frantically. “Yes,” he gasps, “yes,  _ please _ —”

“—but,” Tucker continues, his hands drifting to Wash’s ass cheeks and squeezing, “but, I’m going to spank you first.”

The only sound in the room is the sound of Wash’s ragged breathing. A flush heats his cheeks as Tucker’s words sink in, and Tucker chuckles, reaching forward to brush a thumb across Wash’s cheekbone. “That’s right. You want my cock? Then you’re gonna be good while I slap the shit out of this tight little ass of yours.”

Wash keeps his eyes shut, hips rocking forward slowly into the air as he finds a way to get even harder at Tucker’s words. God, that  _ voice _ —the belts binding his wrists are nothing compared to what that voice is doing to him. He’s helpless under Tucker’s words, melting at the sure, confident tone that he’d never guessed was hidden under all that cockiness. He’d  _ never _ expected it, ever, but now— _ now _ he wants to stay here all day, wrapped inside its velvet cadence, letting it wear away at his sharp lines and edges.

He wants to do whatever,  _ whatever _ that voice tells him.

“Yes,” Wash says. He opens his eyes again. “God, just— _ yes _ . Punish me. I can take it.”

A delighted grin spreads across Tucker’s face. “Can you? Well, we’ll see about that.”

Tucker shifts on the bed so that his own back is to the wall, lifting Wash’s body slightly to slide underneath him, effectively laying Wash out across Tucker’s lap. His face immediately turns red again, breath catching in his throat as Tucker uses the waistband of Wash’s fatigues to pull his hips up into the air. Wash groans in relief as Tucker yanks his fatigues and boxers down around his knees, letting his cock spring free.

Tucker reaches underneath Wash’s hips and grips his cock briefly, thumb swirling precum along Wash’s head. “Christ, you’re hard.”

He is, almost painfully so. Wash groans as Tucker grants him one slow stroke before pulling away, and grinds his hips down against Tucker’s lap. “Uh uh,” Tucker says sharply, hiking his hips back up. Wash whines in protest, trying to gain some sort of friction, but Tucker just gives his hair a sharp tug. “Hey. Stay where the fuck I put you, got it?”

He yanks Wash’s head back again hard when Wash doesn’t answer, pulling until their eyes meet. “I  _ said _ , got it?”

Wash nods and Tucker releases him. He bows his head between his arms as Tucker adjusts his hips until Wash’s ass is high in the air once more. The position leaves him feeling exposed and he squirms a little as Tucker runs a hand down his back, over the swell of his ass and down his thighs. “Now, Wash. How many times do you think I should spank you?”

Wash groans, pressing his forehead hard into the mattress and trying not to grind his hips down. Tucker’s hand is back on his cock, stroking slowly this time, and Wash forces his hips to remain still. “Give me a number, Wash.”

He flicks a thumb over Wash’s head and Wash gasps. “Ten,” he blurts, pressing his forehead harder still into the mattress. “Ten.”

Tucker snickers and Wash feels his face heat up. “ _ Ten? _ Well, if you insist.”

Wash can’t stop the noise of protest that leaves him when Tucker takes his hand away from his cock, but the whine quickly turns into a startled cry as Tucker takes that hand and slaps his ass, hard.  _ “Ohhhh _ , my god…”

Tucker’s hand trails over where his strike fell. “I want you to count them out. Got it?”

Wash nods, hips bearing back against Tucker’s palm, already desperate for more. “One.”

He grits his teeth as Tucker hits him again in the same spot. “Two.”

By Tucker’s fifth strike, Wash is whining low and steady in the back of his throat, mind lost in a floaty haze of pleasure and harder than he’s ever been in his entire life. He can barely pant out the, “six,” when Tucker slaps him again, and is squirming eagerly in anticipation of the seventh strike—

That doesn’t come.

Wash opens his eyes blearily and tries to turn his head, but Tucker’s hand in his hair holds him fast. He jolts as he feels Tucker’s fingertips trace along what has to be his hand print on Wash’s ass, but still the seventh blow doesn’t fall and Wash whines in protest. “Tucker…please…”

“In a minute,” Tucker says innocently, palm still rubbing over Wash’s ass, but it’s not enough, he wants more, needs more, like a desperate itch inside his bones that only Tucker can scratch.

The seconds drag on and still Tucker does nothing as Wash writhes beneath his hands, just clucks his tongue in disapproval. “So needy, Wash.”

It takes a moment for the words to make their way into Wash’s foggy brain, but when they do, he forces his hips to stop their desperate rocking back and forth, stops tossing his head, stops pulling against the restraints. Tucker wants until he’s silent and still, breathing low and measured, and when the seventh slap falls Wash practically sobs in relief.

The last three come quick and sure, falling in the exact same spot. Wash wilts against the mattress, the tension seeping from his bones, hips still high in the air as Tucker rubs a hand against the raw skin of his ass. “Yeah, there you go, look at you. You like that?”

“Yes,” Wash sighs. “God yes.”

Tucker gives his ass a squeeze before shifting his weight, and Wash listens to the sounds of him rummaging under the bed. He hears the unmistakable snap of a bottle popping open, and groans as Tucker’s finger circles around his rim before pressing inside him, slick with lube. Wash has no idea where Tucker managed to get lube in a war zone and at the moment, he doesn’t care. Wash bears back against the pressure, eyes rolling back in his head, and muffles a shout into the pillow when Tucker adds a second finger. He slides them  in and out, methodical and slow, and he almost screams again when Tucker curls his fingers against his prostate and circles there.

Too soon, Tucker slips his fingers out, and the loss leaves Wash feeling cold. He tries to spread his legs further, but the fatigues bunched around his knees don’t let him get very far and he settles for shifting his legs restlessly. There’s the sound of foil tearing and Wash squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to lose his mind. He thinks once more of Tucker fucking his face, of that delicious stretch in his jaw and throat. The thought of that same cock inside him now, fucking him mercilessly, is too much, and when he feels Tucker’s hands on his hips, he presses back against them eagerly.

“I’m gonna fuck you now. Would you like that?”

Wash groans, tilting his head back to look at Tucker. Tucker is in position behind him, one hand stroking his cock, the thumb of his other pressing against the rim of Wash’s asshole. “Yes,  _ please _ …”

Tucker smirks at him, removing his thumb to push the head of his cock into Wash ever so slightly, just enough for him to feel the stretch. Just then, there’s the sound of a footsteps outside in the hallway, and Wash freezes, eyes locking onto the door.

“Huh,” Tucker says casually. “Think dinner just let out. How ‘bout that.”

He pushes into Wash a little further, and Wash’s eyes roll back into his head. He’s panting loud and fast, trying not to moan. He eyes the door again, realizing at the same time as Tucker did that—

“Whoops. Looks like we forgot to lock that.” Tucker pulls his cock out, then presses back in, then again, giving Wash no more than an inch of his length. “Maybe this is all I should give you. Don’t know if you can handle anymore and be quiet, see.”

Wash tries to bear back harder against Tucker, to take more of him in, but Tucker just moves backward, never faltering in his pacing. One tantalizing inch in, one inch out. One inch in, one inch out, until Wash is practically sobbing with want, tossing his head desperately.  _ “Please _ ,” he whispers, “please, Tucker, I-I’ll be quiet, I swear, I  _ swear _ , just  _ fuck _ me, god,  _ please _ …”

“I don’t know,” Tucker says. One inch in, one inch out. “You’re being kinda whiny, Wash. Dunno if you can handle it.”

“I can, I can,” Wash says frantically. “I can—I  _ swear _ —please, please...”

Tucker sighs thoughtfully, and Wash locks his jaw down hard against the scream of frustration bubbling in his chest. “Alright,” he says finally. “Alright, but if the whole goddamn army comes in here because you can’t keep quiet, that’s not my fault.”

Before Wash can process his words, Tucker slams his hips forward, burying his cock fully inside Wash. Wash’s whole body jolts, and he barely manages to muffle his scream into the mattress. “That’s right,” Tucker says, and he adjusts Wash’s hips a little, setting a hard, punishing pace. “That’s right, you wanted it, yeah? So take it.”

Wash bites down hard against the sheets, fingers locking around the bars of the bed frame as Tucker fucks him. He tries to keep one eye on the door, as the crowd only seems to swell, but the way Tucker’s pounding into him makes it hard to focus on anything else. It’s the best he’s had in a long time, one of Tucker’s hands pulling at his hair to the point of pain, the other digging bruises into Wash’s hip as he fucks him hard and fast. Before long, there’s a tightness in Wash’s abdomen that lets him know that if Tucker’s hand were around his cock, he’d already be coming. His cock is throbbing, bouncing and leaking precum all over the mattress every time Tucker thrusts back in. “Tucker…please, I want to come—”

Much to his displeasure, Tucker pauses in his thrusts. Wash bears back against him with a whine, trying to urge Tucker’s cock deeper inside of him, but Tucker pulls back until only the tip of his cock is left inside.  _ “Wash _ ,” Tucker croons. His hands slick up and down Wash’s back. “I’m hearing an awful lot of whining for someone I told to be quiet.”

He can’t stop another whine as Tucker’s hands wander around to the front of his body, palms resting just above Wash’s hip bones. “Tucker, please—I’m so close—I wanna come so bad—”

The sharp slap to his ass is unexpected and makes him yelp, burying his face in the mattress once more. Tucker keeps his hand there as a warning, increasing both the pace and the intensity of his thrusts. “Yeah, I know you wanna come. Look at you, bouncing on my cock, fucking  _ moaning _ for it. I see how bad you want it.”

Tucker’s voice is barely above a whisper, but Wash’s eyes flick to the door again regardless. The footsteps seem to be dying down, and he gasps as he feels Tucker’s lips on his ear. “When I want you to beg, I’ll ask for it. Got it? Said I was gonna let you come and I will. Fucking settle down, alright?”

Wash nods, swallowing hard. He  stops trying to gain any sort of friction against his own dick and just gives it up, hanging his head between his arms, gripping the bars tightly. He pushes back against Tucker, trying to help him along, letting Tucker’s curses and grunts guide the way.  _ “God _ that’s good—Wash—you feel  _ so good _ —“

Tucker readjusts his hips so that he can work into Wash a little harder. There’s a loud crowd moving down the hallway and Wash eyes the unlocked door, but Tucker doesn’t even pause in his thrusts. The bed is rocking against the wall in a continuous motion, the sound of skin on skin  louder than ever to Wash’s ears. Anyone could walk in here, anyone, and see Tucker fucking him. Wash wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop it, wouldn’t be able to voice so much as a protest. The thought fills him with an even greater desire, blood pounding in his ears as he pictures it.

Tucker comes with a loud moan, his hands leaving Wash’s ass he bends over him, forehead pressed in between Wash’s shoulder blades. Wash bears back against him even harder—he’s  _ right there  _ and all it would take was a few strokes of Tucker’s hand and he’d be coming too. The  _ please _ is right there in his throat, but he locks it down, never wavering in the motion of his hips back against Tucker’s. Tucker said he would let him come, if he took his punishment. Tucker said he’d take care of him and told Wash not to ask again, so he won’t, won’t,  _ won’t _ —

His vision goes black around the edges as he finally feels Tucker’s hand close around his cock. “Good boy,” Tucker breathes into his ear. “Go on, Wash, come for me.”

Wash does. He rocks forward into Tucker’s hand and comes at once, painting the dark black sheets white. Tucker’s own cock is still hard inside of him, and he snaps his hips against Wash’s until Wash is groaning steadily. Tucker laughs breathlessly, hand coming up to clamp around Wash’s mouth as Wash comes down from his orgasm, whining loudly into Tucker’s palm.

The motion of their hips slowly stills until Tucker is stretched out along the length of his body once more, knees tucked into the back of Wash’s, head hanging heavy alongside his own. Tucker pulls his cock out and they stay there for another minute, breathing heavily.

Tucker’s comforting weight leaves him all too soon, and Wash has to bite back a protest as he unties Wash’s hands. He tilts his head to watch Tucker stand and begin to dress, whistling cheerfully. It isn’t until Tucker tosses a towel from his locker onto the bed that Wash pushes himself to a shaky sit. He stares at the towel in his hands, twisting his fingers around it nervously. He’s a mess. He has to move. Tucker’s half dressed already and he needs to clean himself up—

“How’s that for taking a break—dude, are you okay?”

Tucker’s squinting at him suspiciously, in the middle of relooping his belt, the same belt that was just around Wash’s wrists. There are deep indentations in his skin where the leather cut in, but the soreness feels  _ good _ . “Yeah,” Wash says. He blinks at Tucker, unsure of why he feels so unsteady. “I—yeah.”

Tucker shifts, uncomfortable. “Was that not—?”

“It was good,” Wash hastens to assure him, and Tucker relaxes. “It was…you were great.”

Tucker winks at him, tugging on his shirt. “So were you.”

The relief that pulses through him at Tucker’s words is staggering, and his chest swells. “Oh. Okay, then.” He turns his gaze downward, grinning stupidly at the towel lest Tucker see the ridiculous, moony expression on his face. “I…your sheets.”

“Fuck the sheets.” Tucker finishes tugging his boots on, heading towards the door. “I’m gonna go take a shower. Seriously, dude, don’t worry about those, I’ll clean ‘em later.”

“Okay…I mean, if you’re sure—”

“I am.” Tucker pauses in the doorway, throwing a final grin over his shoulder. “That’s an order.”

Wash smiles again, but a weird panic grips him as Tucker opens the door. “Tucker, wait—”

Tucker freezes, looking back at him. “What’s up?”

“I…” Wash twists the towel in his hands. “You’re sure?”

“Sure of what?” Tucker asks, bewildered.

“That it was okay?”

“Wash, it was fucking  _ awesome _ . I haven’t come that hard in like, forever.” He frowns, observing Wash more closely. “ _ You _ sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Wash says quickly. “I—sorry, go ahead. I’ll be out soon.”

He doesn’t call after Tucker this time, forcing himself to clean off with the towel and reach for his own clothing. His movements feel slow and uncertain, a strange sluggishness pulsing through his head. He pushes it aside, focuses on the bone deep relaxation in his body instead, and when he finally rises, he doesn’t bother with a shower. It’s all he can do to stumble into his own room and collapse onto his bed, shivering slightly, until he falls into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The thing is, Tucker’s pretty familiar with bad ideas. God knows he’s had his share of them over the years, everything from signing up for the military to trying to bang that entire bachelorette party to running gut-first into a fucking knife.

So this—having Wash sprawled naked across his lap the second time in as many days, hands bound behind his back, ass red with Tucker’s hand print—Tucker knows its a bad idea, has known it from the moment he kissed Wash on the training room floor. He has no clue what they’re doing anymore, or what this even means, but holy fucking  _ Christ _ does it feel good.

Tucker smooths a hand across the red swell of Wash’s ass and watches him shudder, a desperate keen tearing from his throat. Tucker’s been teasing him for close to an hour now and Wash has long gone to pieces. He’s grinding his cock slowly against Tucker’s thigh, all dignity forgotten as he begs, words slurred, mouth hanging wide open. Tucker’s already gotten off twice but he thinks he could probably go for another just listening to these fucking  _ noises _ Wash is making.

He circles a finger around the rim of Wash’s asshole before working it in, beginning to finger fuck him slowly. Wash lets out an open-mouthed sob of relief, the motion of his hips speeding up as he alternates between bearing back against Tucker, and grinding his cock more purposefully against his leg. Tucker watches, fascinated, as Wash writhes underneath him. He’s been high-strung all day, angry and stressed and snapping at everyone and it had taken a lot of work to get him to this point, but now, but  _ now _ —he’s boneless across Tucker’s lap, the tension long leeched out of his body with every slap of Tucker’s hand to his ass. That’s  _ Tucker’s _ name he’s moaning, and that’s  _ Tucker’s _ touch he’s falling apart pieces under, and that’s  _ Tucker _ he’s promising himself to. Tucker got him like this, all fucked out and desperate and  _ begging _ . It’s the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen. It’s more than that. Wash, unwinding under his touch—it’s fucking  _ beautiful _ .

It’s a terrible,  _ terrible _ idea and Tucker doesn’t care.

Tucker doesn’t bother chasing his third orgasm, just flips Wash over and puts everything he has into making Wash come. Wash is begging non-stop now, promising Tucker anything if he just lets him come, and Tucker sure as fuck intends to. Wash trembles head to foot when he finally comes, coming hard all over Tucker’s hand as Tucker stretches out beside him and sucks at the spot under his collarbone that he knows Wash likes. It ends up leaving a mark, one that Wash can hide under his shirt but will see every time he looks in the mirror, and it sends a weird shock of pride through Tucker.

The feeling doesn’t last, as Tucker unties Wash’s wrists and rolls over to get dressed. He’s made a habit of leaving quickly, more to give Wash space than anything. Wash is always so  _ quiet _ after, which makes sense because Tucker is  _ awesome _ at reducing people to puddles of mush, thanks, but there’s something else in his expression that Tucker can’t quite name. He should let it go, the way he normally does. He should  _ leave _ and—

“You know you’re not doing anything wrong, right?”

Wash blinks at him, confused, and Tucker is already regretting saying anything. “Lots of people like to be tied up. It’s not a big deal. Nothing to be ashamed over, dude.”

“Oh, I…” Wash gives his head a little shake. “No no, I’m not. I’m not ashamed.”

_ Then why the fuck do you always look so depressed after we have awesome sex? _ “Oh,” Tucker says instead. He finishes yanking on his boots and shrugs. “Okay, cool. ‘Cause you shouldn’t be.”

He takes a little longer than necessary tying the laces, but when it appears that Wash isn’t going to say anything else, he heads for the door. He’s almost there when Wash’s voice finally comes. “Are you?”

Tucker turns around, raising his eyebrows. “Uh, have you  _ met _ me? No shame over here.”

Wash nods, but the weirdness only seems to intensify. “Right,” Tucker says. “Okay. So. You can grab one of my towels, yeah?”

He’s gone before Wash can say anything else or the conversation can get any more uncomfortable. This has to stop. Tucker  _ knows _ it has to stop.  _ A bad idea, _ he thinks again as he walks away. _ A really, really bad idea. _

He still can’t find it in him to care.

* * *

But the days pass, the odd, guilty feeling wears off, and Tucker finds his eyes following Wash’s movements no matter how hard he tries to keep them away. He thinks Wash is watching him too, which is incredibly hot but doesn’t change the fact that this is  _ a bad idea. _ It isn’t until after yet another long training session during which Wash yells at Tucker, Carolina, Kimball, and half of the army’s cadets, that Tucker squashes down his better judgment and pulls Wash into an adjacent hallway.

He doesn’t know who gets whose helmet off first, only that they’re  _ finally _ fucking off, forgotten on the ground, and Wash is sucking on his bottom lip and making it hard to breathe. Tucker has Wash backed up against the wall, his thigh pressed up against Wash’s codpiece even though he know it isn’t doing shit. He’s hard in all of about fifteen seconds and _ Jesus Christ, _ this man is going to be the death of him. The blood is pounding in his ears and Wash is panting, and Tucker grins, suddenly struck by brilliance. “Wash,” he gasps, jerking his head to the side. “Wash. I think I wanna redeem your offer now.”

“Hmm?” Wash asks, trying to kiss him again, and Tucker pulls back with a grin.

“Last time we fucked, you said you’d do anything I wanted if I let you come,” Tucker says. “So, why don’t you make good on your offer, and put that mouth to work?”

Wash flushes slightly, even as his eyes darken and grow fuzzy in a way that Tucker is beginning to recognize. “You mean…”

“On your knees. Right now.”

He’s still a little shocked when Wash gives a quick glance left and right and  _ does it _ , getting down on his knees. Tucker grins, leaning back against the wall as Wash looks up at him, unsnapping the latches on his codpiece. By the time Wash removes it and gets Tucker’s cock out, Tucker can barely think straight. “Eyes on me,” Tucker manages, as Wash brushes his lips against the head of Tucker’s cock. “The whole time.”

Wash nods, eyes locked onto Tucker’s as he opens his lips and lets Tucker push into his mouth. Tucker hisses a little, reaching down a hand to cup the back of Wash’s head.  _ “Shit _ , that’s good Wash, just like that…”

Wash has sucked his dick enough times now that Tucker can confidently say it’s the best head he’s ever received, hands down. He’ll never get enough of it, the tightness of Wash’s throat, the wanting in his eyes. The sound of other soldiers talking and training and moving through the capital reaches their ears, and although Tucker  _ thinks _ they’re far enough away, it’s difficult to know for sure. Wash never wavers for a second, not even when a particularly loud group crosses what can’t be more than two hallways over. The thought of other people walking around the corner, seeing Wash on his knees with Tucker’s cock in his mouth, has his hips thrusting eagerly forward. “Someone could come at any moment,” he gasps to Wash. “Could walk around and see—see how  _ good _ you are for me…”

Wash moans around him, moving his head a little faster, and Tucker lets his head fall back against the wall, panting. “Yeah, you like that Wash? C’mon, just give me a little more, I’m so close…”

Wash does, hands grasping at Tucker’s hips to help pull him in a little deeper.  Tucker bites back a moan as he comes, and Wash takes him in all the way, letting Tucker come down the back of his throat. He sucks Tucker off until he starts to soften, then carefully pulls off his dick to clean him.

Tucker watches as Wash tucks him away, refastening his codpiece and looking up at him. “That get you hard, Wash? Sucking my dick in the middle of the hallway?”

Wash flushes slightly but he nods, his eyes sharp on Tucker’s. He’s squirming in his suit, hips moving restlessly, and Tucker tilts his head up, running a thumb across his lips. “I think you’ve just earned yourself a reward, Wash. My room, tonight.” He flicks his gaze down to where Wash is adjusting his codpiece. “Don’t you dare touch yourself before then. I want you nice and wound up for me. Got it?”

Wash’s mouth falls open a little, hands still at his codpiece. “But—”

“Ah ah,” Tucker admonishes. “ _ Don’t _ fucking touch yourself. I’ll know if you do.”

Wash hesitates, then nods, jerking his hands away from his codpiece as he stands, and Tucker rewards him with one more kiss before he reaches down to grab his helmet, whistling as he walks away.

* * *

Tucker’s too wound up to wait patiently for Wash to arrive at his room that night, and paces relentlessly, eyeing the door every few minutes. He’s been hard off and on all day and although he could’ve relieved himself anytime, he hadn’t. It’d be worth it, he knew, when Wash arrived. He’s so ready to wreck Wash, wring every ounce of tension from that body until he was so fucked out he could barely talk. It’s Tucker’s favorite thing these days, being able to reduce Wash to that state, to make him lay the fuck down and just feel good. He kind of wishes he’d figured this out sooner. It might’ve meant a lot more nights in which Wash actually slept.

The door opens and Wash walks, already in his fatigues. He pauses with several feet between them, and Tucker grins. “Look at you, finally learning how to be patient. Take off your clothes.”

Wash does, stripping efficiently and folding everything in a neat little pile at the foot of Tucker’s bed. Tucker strips himself, but it takes him longer than it should because he  _ can’t stop watching Wash _ . It’s mesmerizing, the way Wash seemed to relax the moment he walked into the room, the way he’s laser focused on every single one of Tucker’s movements. Tucker throws his own clothes in a hasty pile on the floor, drags the metal chair he’d found across the floor and takes a seat. “C’mere.”

Wash goes to him, straddling Tucker and settling carefully in his lap. Tucker’s cock is nestled perfectly between Wash’s ass cheeks, and if he moves his hips just right, he can grind there. Wash groans when he does, pressing himself more firmly down into Tucker’s lap. His own cock is hard between them, and when Tucker wraps a fist around it, Wash groans again, head tipping backwards to expose his throat.

Tucker doesn’t waste the opportunity, trailing his tongue along the clusters of freckles, his hand slowly pumping Wash’s cock as Wash grinds down against him. “Ready to earn your reward, Wash? Or are you gonna be a fucking brat again?”

“Just…just tell me what to do,” Wash gasps. “I’m ready.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are.” Tucker slows down the movement of his hand, but leaves his fist wrapped around Wash’s dick, lets Wash do the work to thrust up into it. “Alright, Wash. I’m gonna let you ride me.”

Wash shudders at his words, and Tucker grins. “Gonna let you ride me…but no touching yourself until I say so.”

He lets go of Wash’s cock at those words and Wash groans, reaching a hand automatically towards himself. He stops at the last minute, clenching his fist tightly, and nods. “Okay.”

“Good boy,” Tucker says. He gives Wash’s ass a little slap. “Get to work.”

Wash nods, leaning down to kiss Tucker. Tucker loses himself in the sensations, letting Wash take control of the kiss, exploring Tucker’s mouth with his tongue. He closes his eyes as Wash’s lips wander, from his ear to his neck to his nipples and fucking  _ Christ _ does that feel good. He’s almost tempted to let Wash continue this way, but—plans. He has  _ plans _ . “Get yourself ready.”

Wash hesitates. “Don’t you want to…?”

“Fuck yeah I do, but I wanna watch you do it more.” Tucker kisses him, soft and slow. “Wanna see you make yourself feel good.”

His words make Wash flush in a way that makes Tucker think he’s hit on something there. But Wash stands, grabbing the lube that Tucker has left out on the bed. He reaches behind himself, and opens himself up in a way that nearly makes Tucker loose his goddamn mind. Wash’s mouth is hanging open, eyes fluttering closed as he thrusts his fingers in and out of himself slowly. He leans forward heavily, one hand resting on Tucker’s shoulder. “When you’re ready,” Tucker finally chokes. “Jesus  _ Christ _ . Whenever you’re ready, Wash…”

Wash straddles him immediately, wrapping a hand around Tucker’s dick to guide it inside of him. His mouth falls open as he takes Tucker all the way in, head tilting back to pant at the ceiling. “Holy fuck,” Tucker hisses. He puts his hands on Wash’s hips, rubbing circles there. “That’s it baby, sit on my cock, just like that.”

He drinks in the sight of Wash sitting naked in his lap, hands digging into Tucker’s shoulders, face flushed, cock hard and leaking. “Go ahead,” Tucker chokes out. “Go on, you can.”

Wash sighs up at the ceiling, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment before he tilts his head down, attaches his lips to Tucker’s neck, and begins to rock.

It’s all Tucker can do to hold on, gripping tightly to Wash’s hips. He’s never been so grateful for the fact that Wash works out like a manic, because the way he’s  _ riding _ Tucker—the pace is hard and unwavering, the muscles of Wash’s thighs pulsing under his hands. He moves those hands all over Wash’s body, palms dragging up his abs, fingertips digging into his back. Wash’s hands are moving too, tugging at Tucker’s hair, pinching at his nipples, scratching down his back. His hand occasionally drifts down the lines of his own body, as if he’s reaching again for his own cock, but he always jerks it away at the last second with a groan.

“Being so good,” Tucker gasps, as Wash winds his hands determinedly in Tucker’s hair. “Wanna know what I’m gonna do to you when you’re done? Gonna suck your cock  _ realllll _ nice Wash, just wait…”

Wash moans, his pacing growing faster still. Tucker reaches up to tug at his chin, pulling Wash’s face down towards his for a kiss. They’re both so close that they can do little more than pant into each others’ mouths, but Tucker can taste every little moan this way and when Tucker comes, it’s with Wash’s name on his lips.

Wash never falters for a second, continuing to bounce in Tucker’s lap until Tucker is wilting back into the chair with a whimper, hands smoothing down Wash’s back. Wash slows his movements until he’s still in Tucker’s lap once more, looking at him with wide eyes. He stands slowly, cock smearing precum across Tucker’s abs, and Tucker bites his lip because holy shit, he needed his mouth all over that  _ yesterday _ .

He rises as well, tugging at Wash’s chin for another kiss. “Go stand over by the foot of the bed.”

Wash hastens to obey, and Tucker eyes him appreciatively as he unrolls the condom into the trash. He yanks his gym back out from under the bed, pulling out two pairs of handcuffs and grinning at Wash. “Face away from the foot of the bed and spread your arms.”

Tucker secures a cuff to each wrist, securing them to opposite ends of the bedframe so that Wash is standing at the edge, hands bound off to his sides. Wash’s chest is heaving, but he’s quiet as he watches Tucker’s eyes taking him in.

The quiet breaks when Tucker sinks to his knees, holding Wash’s gaze all the while. “Oh god,” Wash moans. He jerks forward, tugging at the restraints. “God,  _ Tucker _ ….”

“Ah ah,” Tucker admonishes. He rests his hands on Wash’s hands. “Hold up. You gotta keep these still.”

Wash blinks down at him, bewildered. Even now, his hips are moving in tiny jerks against Tucker’s palms, desperately trying to rut towards his mouth. “W-what?”

“You heard me.” Tucker gives his hips a squeeze. “These don’t move.”

“Oh, god, Tucker, I can’t, I  _ can’t _ …”

“Yes you can,” Tucker says. “C’mon, Wash, I know you can. You can move them when I say, yeah? Just show me you can keep still for a little while.”

Wash whimpers a little, but he nods, setting his jaw hard.

Tucker has to admit he’s impressed when Wash’s hips don’t move as he sucks Wash’s cock into his mouth. Wash lets out a keening whine, his body shuddering, but he doesn’t thrust forward. Tucker begins to bob his head immediately, working Wash over, and although Wash’s hips are shaking beneath his hands, he keeps himself still.

He doesn’t even thrust forward when Tucker pulls his mouth away to grin up at him. “Doing so good, Wash. Looks like you can take orders as well as you can give them.”

Wash is panting so loudly he’s nearly hyperventilating, face bright red with the effort of holding himself still. “Please don’t stop,” he manages. “Tucker—please—“

Tucker grins, wrapping his lips around the head of Wash’s cock once more. He goes slower this time, sucking Wash all the way down and nearly pulling off. Tucker feels a flare of triumph as Wash cracks, hips pumping forward as Tucker speeds up even further. He pulls his mouth off with no warning, and Wash writhes. “No— _ wait _ —Tucker—please, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again—”

Tucker shrugs, revealing in the frustrated moan Wash lets out as he stands. “Wash, Wash,  _ Wash _ ,” Tucker says in sympathy. “Gonna still let you come, alright? But every time you don’t listen to me, I stop for a minute. Got it?”

Wash nods frantically, and Tucker sits back a little. He counts the minute down and watches Wash squirm the whole time, writhing against the cuffs, head tossing at the ceiling. When the minute is up, Tucker leans forward, licking a long, slow stripe against the side of Wash’s cock. “You ready to try this again?”

Wash doesn’t answer right away, and Tucker reaches around to give his ass a sharp slap. It works, bringing a stillness to Wash’s movements and a brief clearness to his eyes. “Ready to try this again?”

“Yes,” Wash says. He sets his jaw, determined. “Yes, I am.”

“Good.” Tucker squeezes his legs. “Five minutes, alright? Hold still for five minutes.”

Tucker can feel it when it happens, when Wash lets go. His muscles tense under Tucker’s hands as Tucker takes him into his mouth once more, before they loosen in one long, shuddering breath. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even make a sound, and when the five minutes are up, Tucker pulls off and beams up at him.

“Okay, Wash. Go crazy.”

He eases Wash back into it, licking around his cock before sucking in the head, then the rest of him, inch by inch until Wash is buried in his throat. Wash starts slowly as well, thrusting shallowly at first before speeding up, hips growing frantic and erratic. Tucker tightens his grip on Wash’s thighs and pulls him in again, and again, until Wash is shuddering and sighing and finally, finally, coming inside of his mouth.

He bares manages to catch Wash when his legs give out, standing quickly to get his arms under Wash’s armpits. Wash drapes himself over Tucker’s shoulder, sighing, and Tucker laughs a little, reaching out awkward to undo the cuffs. Wash’s arms swing down at his sides, and Tucker maneuvers them both back onto the bed, flopping down beside Wash.

Neither of them say anything for a while, flopped on the bed, breathing heavily at the ceiling. Wash has his eyes closed, mouth still hanging open, and Tucker grins. “Love doctor, am I right?”

Wash just hums a little, and Tucker sinks back into the pillow. Wash’s arm is warm against his, and once Tucker notices this fact, it’s impossible to ignore. He’s aware of it in a way he wasn’t aware of during the sex. Wash is lying perfectly still now, hardly even breathing, and Tucker thinks he should probably move.

Wash’s eyes snap open at once when he does, eyebrows coming together. Tucker shifts awkwardly, then stands, grabbing for his pants. “So, uh…”

There it is again, all at once—that dejected, guilty look, all over Wash’s face and seeping into every line of his body. It’s as if a bucket of cold water has been thrown over Tucker’s head, washing away the afterglow, and he scoffs loudly, yanking on his clothes with unnecessary force. “I don’t get you, man.”

Wash blinks at him, expression confused and hazy. “What?”

“I don’t…” Tucker takes a deep breath, shoving his foot into a boot. “I just, you  _ clearly _ fucking enjoy this. _ I  _ clearly fucking enjoy this. What’s the goddamn problem?”

“There’s not—”

“There is,” Tucker says. “There is! This isn’t…this isn’t how people look after sex!”

Wash flushes a little, sitting up then. “Well, I’m sorry for not looking however I’m  _ supposed _ to look!”

“Not like this! Not….not fucking guilty and depressed as shit, like…like I  _ made _ you do this—”

“You  _ didn’t _ !” Wash exclaims. He gives his head a hard shake, bringing some clarity back to his eyes. “Tucker, no, that’s not it—”

“Then what is it? Do you not  _ wanna _ do this anymore?”

“No—I mean yes—I mean….” Wash takes a breath. “Yes. I still want to do this.”

“Then….?”

For a moment, he thinks Wash is going to tell him, from the way he squares his shoulders, until he meets Tucker’s eyes. Whatever he finds in there causes him to wilt once more, and Tucker snorts, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Wash snaps. “I don’t…I do everything you ask, and then—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp click of his teeth, and Tucker frowns at him. “And then?”

Wash is on his feet now too, yanking on his own clothing. “And then nothing. I—this clearly isn’t good enough for you.”

“Oh, come  _ on _ —”

“So,” Wash continues loudly, “maybe you should go find someone who meets whatever expectations you have.”

“What the fuck— _ Wash _ , I don’t have expectations! Wait, hold the fuck up—”

But Wash is gone, not even bothering to tie his bootlaces before he storms out the door. Tucker debates running after him before flopping back on his bed with a groan. Fine. Wash didn’t want to do this anymore, then whatever. It isn’t—it isn’t Tucker’s  _ job _ to figure out what the fuck is going on with him.

Besides, Tucker thinks, shoving himself up angrily to go get some dinner. Perhaps it’s for the best this way, anyway.

He ignores the sinking feeling in his chest and grabs his own shoes, slamming his door behind him.

* * *

Tucker doesn’t see Wash all morning the next day, which—fine. That’s fine. He doesn’t care, and he isn’t keeping track, and he sure as shit doesn’t have like, a weird knot in his stomach. They’re doing nothing wrong. If Wash wants to get all weird after sex and spend his time feeling guilty, that’s none of Tucker’s business. None at all.

He finally sees Wash later that afternoon, when their training schedules happen to line up. Great. So, there he is. Tucker definitely doesn’t feel a weird little jolt of relief—

That promptly dissipates when he gets a good look at Wash. He can tell from all the way across the training room that Wash is pale and tense, running through some hand to hand exercises with Sarge and Carolina. Judging from the way Carolina has her arms folded across her chest and is eying Wash suspiciously as he spars with Sarge, Tucker isn’t the only one who noticed.

He wrenches his eyes away from Wash and heads over to where Donut is half-heartedly lifting some weights. It takes Tucker three tries to get his attention, and when he finally does, Donut barely glances at him. Tucker throws up his hands. “Dude, what is  _ up _ with everyone today?”

That gets Donut’s attention. “Oh, good, you’ve noticed it too?”

“Noticed what?”

“Wash!” Donut emphasizes. “He’s been in here for hours! I’m starting to wonder if—”

“Wait, he’s been in here for _ hours? _ Seriously?”

_ “Yes _ , and he’s refusing to take a break and—”

“Dude, that’s not exactly unusual—”

“Oh, I  _ know _ , but Tucker, this is different, I mean,  _ look _ at him…”

Tucker sighs, glancing over at Wash once more despite himself. Donut’s right: Wash isn’t exactly known for taking care of himself, but this is different. There’s a sluggish, unfocused look in his eyes, and when he finally pauses to grab a towel to wipe his face off, Tucker can see that his hands are shaking.

“What the fuck,” he mutters. He turns back to see Donut staring at him imploringly. “ _ What? _ !”

“I don’t know….” Donut gestures. “Do something!”

Tucker gapes at him. “Do some— _ me? _ What the fuck do you want  _ me _ to do?”

“I don’t know! He listens to you!”

Tucker laughs, startled. “Uh, in what world? He doesn’t listen to a thing I say!”

He hastily shoves thoughts of Wash from the other night, hanging on his every word, out of his mind as Donut flaps his arms impatiently. “I just mean—you get through to him, Tucker! You’re able to get right inside that deep place inside him that no one else can reach!”

“I don’t—that’s not—look, I came here to work out. Can you just spot me a set?”

Donut glances once more at Wash before sighing and turning to Tucker. “Oh,  _ alright _ …”

But he keeps stealing little peeks at Wash, and consequentially, so does Tucker. He can see Carolina watching him carefully, and Wash shrugging off all of her concerns. It isn’t until nearly twenty minutes later that a loud  _ THUD _ has Tucker whipping around from where he’s resting on the edge of his weight bench.

Wash is on the ground, one hand pressed dazedly to his temple as Sarge and Carolina hover over him. Tucker’s on his feet and halfway across the room before he gets a hold of himself, halting awkwardly. He clenches his hands into fists as Wash’s hand comes away to reveal his forehead smeared with blood, driven by an insane desire to go over there and—and—what?

“S’fine, Sarge,” Wash is muttering, waving off Sarge’s attempts to offer him a hand back to his feet. “Should’ve blocked that…”

“’Course you should’ve blocked it!” Sarge says. “Been drilling this move for the last fifteen minutes and you aren’t paying a lick of attention!”

“He’s not wrong,” Carolina says, her voice tight and pinched with worry. “Wash, just wait—”

But Wash bats her hand away sharply as she kneels and tries to tilt his head towards her. “Carolina, stop. I’m fine.”

“Wash—”

He bats away Sarge’s hand too, pushing himself to a shaky stand. Tucker winces as he sways, Sarge’s hand grasping his elbow to steady him, and Wash jerks away, hard.

“I’m fine,” he says, sharper still. “Just—just give me a minute and we can keep going—“

“Oh no,” Carolina interrupts. “That’s enough training for you for today.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Carolina says sharply. “You need to go to the infirmary. I think that needs stitches.”

She slides her eyes to Sarge as he says it, who scoffs at once. “Put your eyeballs back in that red head of yours! Seen you walk out of a training room looking worse than this on occasion.”

Carolina rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue the point, and Sarge looks at Wash. “However, the lady’s not wrong—where do you think you’re going, Frecklelancer?”

To the punching bag hanging in the corner, is apparently where. Tucker watches incredulously as he begins to punch it, no hand wraps, bloody forehead and all, and next to Tucker, Donut makes a little noise of despair before pushing past him, to get to Wash, pausing to dampen one of the fresh workout towels with water from his canteen. “Wash, you need to sit—”

Wash shrugs him off as well too, the motion nearly upending him. For a moment, he’s standing there, a few feet away from the punching bag, eyes wandering around the training room. For the barest of moments, they lock with Tucker’s and Tucker is moving. It’s as if Wash’s eyes are a magnet, pulling him helplessly forward, drawn by some instinct to…to…

He doesn’t question it this time, just follows the instinct as it marches him over to where Wash is batting at the heavy bag once more. Tucker folds his arms tightly across his chest, trying to ignore the fact that everyone is watching him. “Dude, what the fuck is up with you?”

Wash gives no sign that he’s even heard Tucker. He just stumbles away from the bag and begins pacing around the fucking training room, wandering aimlessly between the benches and the sparring mats, waving off Donut’s attempts to tend to the bloody cut in his head. Wash brushes a hand absently over the gash, the heel of his palm dragging over it and smearing blood through his hair.

It’s the sight of that bright red blood standing stark against the blond of Wash’s hair that makes something click inside of Tucker’s brain.  He grabs Wash’s wrist the next time he walks past, halting his incessant pacing, and pulls him around until they’re facing each other. “Wash,  _ sit the fuck down _ . Now.”

And Wash  _ does.  _ He doesn’t try to pull away or resume pacing or tell Tucker to fuck off, just drops his weight so immediately that he almost misses the bench and Tucker has to steady him with both hands and help him sit. “Holy shit, be  _ careful… _ ”

He moves to stand in front of Wash, taking Wash’s face in his hands and turning it to the side to examine the wound. The bleeding is superficial, but he’s going to have a nasty bruise. With a muttered curse, Tucker turns to where Donut is standing at his side, gaping, and snags the wet cloth out of his hand. He presses it carefully to the wound in Wash’s temple, wiping away the blood. “You need an ice pack,” he snaps.  _ “Jesus _ , Wash—“

He tilts Wash’s head up to look him in the eyes, and whatever snappy remark he was preparing dies in his throat. Wash is sitting limply in the chair, hands in his lap, looking up at Tucker in a way that Tucker doesn’t think anyone has ever looked at him before—waiting and expectant and  _ trusting _ . Wash’s head feels so heavy in his hands, as if he’s barely keeping himself upright. There’s an unfocused, fuzzy vulnerability in Wash’s eyes, a look that Tucker is starting to recognize, that he’s only seen when—

_ Shit. _

Tucker swallows, placing a hand directly under Wash’s chin and tilting his head up a little more. “Have you eaten today?”

“No,” Wash says, the word coming out in a sigh, his head growing heavier still in Tucker’s palm. “Not since last night.”

“Jesus fuck,” Tucker snaps. He stretches one hand across the bench to grab his canteen and the ration bar he’d swiped from the mess hall. “Eat that and drink some water.”

He uncaps the bottle and shoves it into Wash’s hand, tearing open the wrapper on the ration bar while Wash drinks. “You sleep last night?”

Wash tilts his head as if he’s thinking about it, which tells Tucker pretty much all he needs to know. “A little?” he says, more of a question than an answer, and Tucker sighs.

“Okay, well, no more training until you take a fucking nap.”

Wash frowns up at him, pausing mid-bite. “I have to train, Tucker.”

“Not like this you don’t,” Tucker says immediately. “Dude, what, you’re gonna go back out there and train until you pass out? What the fuck good is that gonna do except freak out all of the cadets?”

He watches Wash’s eyes flick somewhere behind him, and follows his gaze to see the cadets only half-focused on their drills, watching them anxiously. Tucker turns back to Wash just in time to see Wash’s face go from stubborn to guilty as he stares at the ration bar. “I didn’t mean…”

Tucker sighs. “Wash, just eat the ration bar.”

He stands there the entire time while Wash is eating, blotting occasionally at the cut in his head until the bleeding has stopped. Donut nudges his elbow and Tucker turns to see him wordlessly holding out a first aid kit. “Oh, thanks.”

“Sure thing, Tucker,” Donut says.

His tone is even and measured, but there’s something there that has Tucker doing a double take. Donut’s face is utterly blank of expression as he meets Tucker’s gaze, not even a hint of his usual cheerful smile there. “I got this, Donut.”

Donut says nothing, doesn’t even break eye contact, just cracks open the first aid kit in an ominous sort of way, so Tucker ignores him and gets to work securing a bandage over Wash’s wound. Wash has finished the ration bar by now and is sitting there quietly, looking at least a little more energized. Tucker wonders if he’s aware of the way that he’s leaning into every brush of Tucker’s fingers, or the way his eyes flutter closed when Tucker pushes back his hair. He cracks open the ice pack and holds it carefully to Wash’s head. “Sure you don’t wanna go see Grey?”

Wash shakes his head mutely and Tucker sighs, but doesn’t argue. He stands there for a while, holding the ice pack to Wash’s head, unsure of what to do next. He should get up and go—Wash is fine, Wash doesn’t need him, but he’s still leaning into Tucker’s touch and is at least not trying to get up and keep training.

“You should do his wrists while you’re at it.”

Tucker whips his head around to look at Donut, who hasn’t stopped hovering. “What?”

“His wrists.” Donut gestures. “They’re all chafed and _ that’s _ just no good. Maybe a bandage?”

_ He knows. _

The seconds drag on as he holds Donut’s gaze once more, and after a moment, Tucker reaches into the first aid kit once more. “Yeah. Good idea.”

He sets down the ice pack and crouches down in front of Wash, pulling his wrists forward. Wash is still unnervingly quiet, letting Tucker turn and twist his wrists however he pleases to examine them. It’s not until he rolls Wash’s shirt sleeves up a little that he can see just how chafed and raw they are, and that Donut was right. There are cuts in his skin from where the metal had clearly broken the skin.  _ How _ had he not noticed that Wash was bleeding?

The wave of guilt that hits him is nearly suffocating, but he pushes it down.  _ Gotta find something softer next time, _ Tucker thinks as he wraps a layer of gauze around them. Maybe—

_ Next time. _

He freezes, right there in the middle of securing the bandage. Next time. He’d just thought that, that he wanted a next time, when he’s bandaging Wash’s bloody  _ wrists _ , when Wash is looking at him as if Tucker’s got all the answers. It should be freaking him out, _ is _ freaking him out. He should be running in the other direction.

Wash is looking at him all expectant and shit and it’s a _ bad idea. _

“Come on,” he says anyway. “You—look, why don’t you just try to lay down? You don’t have to go to sleep, but you can…you can work on planning the next mission or something.”

With a nod, Wash rises slowly to follow him.

* * *

Tucker is so exhausted by the end of the day that he doesn’t know what to _ do  _ with himself. He waits outside of Wash’s room for a few minutes to make sure he’s not like, going to sneak out and resume training the second Tucker leaves, but as far as Tucker can tell, Wash doesn’t have any plans to do that. He isn’t even making a sound and while Tucker is sure that he’s not sleeping, he thinks Wash might at least be sitting quietly on his datapad or something. Thank fuck.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, and he heads back to his own room without even swinging by the mess hall. He needs a nap. Just a quick nap, and—

“Oh,  _ heeey _ there, Tucker.”

“Jesus Christ!” Tucker has his sword out and ignited before he registers that the shadowy figure lurking in his room is fucking  _ Donut _ . “Are you  _ crazy? _ ”

Donut sits forward from where he’s perched neatly on a crate in the corner of Tucker’s room, hands folded on his knee.  _ “Gosh _ Tucker, I’m sorry! Did I  _ scare _ you?”

_ Shit _ .

Donut is smiling brightly at Tucker, and there’s nothing threatening at all about the way he’s sitting, but that voice—Tucker  _ knows _ that voice. It’s the same one that Donut had used when he found out Tucker was sneaking handfuls of his special fancy imported conditioner to jerk off with in the desert. It’s the voice that Donut uses when he  _ knows something, _ and it’s only a matter of time before Tucker suffers the repercussions.

He enters his room anyway, reaching for the headband tossed on his pillow and sweeping his dreads away from his face, for lack of anything else to do. “What do you want?”

Donut clucks his tongue. “Well,  _ that’s _ not a very nice way to greet a guest! The polite thing to do would be to offer a good, hearty handshake and perhaps a glass of wine—”

“What the fuck makes you think I have wine in a war zone?”

“Well,  _ I _ have wine.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Besides, you’re not an invited guest. You just showed up in my room creepy as fuck.”

Great. Now  _ he _ sounds crazy, and Donut doesn’t respond at first, though Tucker can feel his eyes boring into him. Tucker finishes fiddling with his hair, hoists his boot up on the bed frame to undo the laces, and promptly freezes, because fuck, fuck, fuck,  _ his handcuffs are still hanging there _ .

“Is Wash taking himself a nice little nap?” Donut asks, although his voice has lost some of its warmth, and it snaps Tucker out of the horrified trance he’s fallen into it.

“That’s none of your business,” Tucker says sharply, finally glancing up at him.

Donut lifts an eyebrow. “Well,  _ goodness _ Tucker, I’m just checking to see if my friend is okay.”

“He’s resting and he’s fine,” Tucker snaps. “Though, again.  _ Not _ exactly your business.”

“See, Tucker, that’s the  _ thiiiing _ ,” Donut says, and the warmth is definitely seeping out of his tone now. “I’m  _ making _ it my business.”

His eyes flick pointedly to the handcuffs, and Tucker huffs, arms folding across his chest. “Okay, look, if you have something to say, just fucking say it—”

“You hurt Wash.”

Tucker surprised at just how deep down Donut’s words reach. It’s as if he’s reached straight to the anxious pool of guilt that’s settled in Tucker’s gut all day, and torn all those awful feelings screaming to the surface. “I wouldn’t hurt Wash,” Tucker says, just as sharply. “I—he  _ annoys _ me like, every fucking day, but I would never hurt him. That’s fucked up, dude.”

The ice in Donut’s tone hasn’t thawed in the slightest. “Well, you did. You  _ did _ hurt him and I…” He trails off, expression growing a little sad. “I thought you were better than that, Tucker.”

The disappointment in Donut’s voice is far, far worse than any hostility. “This is bullshit,” he says, standing abruptly, ripping out the headband he’d just put in. “This—are you fucking serious? You’re gonna come in here and lecture me like I’m a fucking kid who’s never had sex before?”

“Well, that’s what you’re acting like—”

“Get out,” Tucker says loudly. “Like, seriously dude, get the fuck out of my room.”

“Fine,” Donut says, standing himself. “But Tucker?”

He remains silent until Tucker finally meets his eyes.  _ “What?” _

“I don’t want to see Wash like that again,” Donut says, and he heads for the door.

Tucker isn’t sure what makes him speak: the anger, the embarrassment, the curiosity. In the end, he thinks it’s probably his confusion that wins, because Donut is pissed, really pissed, and Tucker doesn’t—

“See Wash like  _ what _ again?”

Donut freezes before turning around to look at Tucker suspiciously. “Excuse me?”

“I….I just…” Tucker drops his eyes, turning them to the headband he’s twisting in his hands. “I’ve—uh. This isn’t the first—okay. Look. I’ve…tied people up…before and—they’ve never—”

Something changes in Donut’s eyes, and Tucker spins around, flopping on his bed. “You know what? Forget it. Just fucking go.”

“Tucker,” Donut says, his voice measured and careful. “Do you…do you not know what’s going on here?”

“Ugh!” Tucker flops back onto his bed, glaring at the ceiling. “Just forget it, I told you to go!”

“You don’t,” Donut says, surprised. “You _ don’t, _ do you?”

“Either explain what the fuck you’re talking about or get out of my room, Donut.”

But Donut doesn’t explain, just sits down on the bed next to Tucker. “Do you want some wine?”

Tucker snorts despite himself. “Where the fuck are we gonna get wine, Donut?”

“My room, silly,” Donut says, prodding his side gently. “I wasn’t kidding, I have some! Come on, let’s go talk.”

When Tucker still doesn’t move, Donut grabs his wrist, tugging him off the bed. Tucker relents after only momentary resistance, following Donut wearily down the hallway to his room. The sheer depths of his exhaustion hits him as they walk, and the moment they enter Donut’s room, Tucker curls up on his bed, leans against the wall, and stares off into space.

Donut’s demeanor has changed completely as he bustles around his room. What was previously tense and angry is now light and eager. There’s a purpose to his movements and when he speaks, his voice is much brighter. “Now, Tucker. Why don’t you talk to me about what’s been bothering you?”

“Nothing’s been bothering me,” Tucker says automatically. He reaches out to take a glass from Donut—it’s  _ real _ wine, in a real fucking wine glass—and makes a face as Donut looks at him imploringly. “Ugh, fine, fine!”

It’s still nearly a minute before Tucker speaks, and when he does, he can’t manage anything more articulate than, “so I’m fucking Wash.”

“Yes, Tucker,” Donut says patiently. “I know that.”

“Okay, but how?” Tucker challenges. “See, this is what I don’t—how do you  _ know _ we’re fucking?”

“Well, I saw his wrists, and the handcuffs on your bed, for one, but—gosh, Tucker, I think the whole training room noticed something was going on with what happened today.”

“Okay,” Tucker says, pointing at Donut. “That! How the—what does Wash acting all fucking  _ weird _ have anything to do with us having sex?”

_ “Everything _ ,” Donut says, and hastens to continue when Tucker nearly upends his wine class while throwing up his hands. “Tucker, it d _ oes! _ Just—let’s back up. You and Wash are having sex.”

“Yes.”

“And something’s clearly bothering you.  _ Both _ of you. Do you not like it?”

“What—no! I mean—yes, I like it. And so does  _ he _ , by the way.”

Donut tilts his head. “You don’t sound very convinced.”

“It’s just….” He takes a breath. “Okay, look, I’ve tied people up before. And I’ve been tied up. It’s not a big deal or anything. Handcuffs, ropes, tape, scarves, I’m down with it all.”

Donut doesn’t so much as blink, and Tucker hurries on. “Right, so, what’s the big problem? I tie Wash up and fuck the life out of him. So what? I mean, it’s  _ hot _ . I’m talking smoking hot. Like, I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my  _ life _ , you know?”

“And is it that good for Wash, too?”

Tucker stares at him. “What? Of course it is! What the fuck does  _ that _ mean—we’re both  _ into _ it Donut, Jesus—”

“No no—” Donut waves a hand. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, what does Wash  _ tell _ you?

“Tell me?”

“When you talk about this,” Donut emphasizes. “You said he likes it. Do you know that because he’s talked to you about what he likes and doesn’t like?”

“I….well, no—I mean, yeah! I mean…he gets all weird after and I ask him if he wants to keep doing this and he  _ says _ yes, but he sounds…weird.”

“Weird?”

“Like….depressed.”

“Oh, Tucker.”

“What?” Tucker says loudly. “Stop being so fucking cryptic and just  _ explain _ to me what—”

“Okay.” Donut pauses, thinking. “When the two of you have sex. Do  _ you _ always have control?”

“Well— _ yes _ , but he likes it—”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t,” Donut says impatiently. “I’m—just asking you a question, Tucker.”

“Yes. Yes, I always tie him up.”

“Okay,” Donut says slowly. “Now…don’t get angry, Tucker, but—how much talking about this have you guys done?”

“I—none. Okay? We haven’t really talked about it. It just sort of…happened one day, and kept happening.” Tucker shakes his head. “I don’t understand why we need to talk about it! I mean…what’s different?”

Donut takes his time setting his wine glass down on the crate next to him, turning to talk. “It’s different, Tucker,” he says carefully, “because it sounds to me as if you and Wash have started a BDSM relationship.”

Tucker gapes at him. He isn’t sure what his face is doing, but it must look pretty baffled, because Donut sits up a little straighter. “BDSM stands for—”

“I know what BDSM is, Donut! Jesus Christ!”

Donut huffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Well, no offense Tucker, but it doesn’t really seem like it!”

“Besides, that’s not even what we’re  _ doing _ —there’s no like, whips and chains and shit, I’m just…tying him up! We’re not in any sort of relationship!”

“Tucker, yes you  _ are _ —”

“But it’s just a pair of handcuffs! Just because you tie someone up doesn’t mean you’re in a  _ BDSM relationship _ -”

“Tucker, forget the handcuffs for a minute,” Donut says impatiently. “That’s not what’s important here. That’s not what I’m  _ talking _ about.”

“Then what are you talking about?!”

“I…” Donut bites his lip. “Tucker, I don’t think you understand the control you have over Wash in these situations. The way he  _ looked _ at you today…”

He trails off, and Tucker thinks of Wash’s head, so heavy in his hands, and the way he’d looked up at Tucker earlier. “He wouldn’t let anyone near him,” Donut says softly. “But the  _ second _ you came over….”

“That’s just—like you said, he listens to me—”

“He listens to you,” Donut says, “because he trusts you to take  _ care _ of him. And….Tucker, I’m sorry, but you need to do a better job, or you need to stop sleeping together. Some people—being controlled makes them feel safe, and it sounds to me like Wash might be one of these people. It can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. There’s hormones and chemicals that can get really nasty if you’re not taken care of properly and…you need to make sure you’re doing that. Taking care of him.”

His words send a fresh wave of guilt through Tucker, and he shifts uncomfortably on Donut’s bed. “But I don’t  _ want _ to be in a relationship. Neither does Wash. We just want to have sex.”

“Well, you  _ are _ in a relationship of sorts,” Donut says, undeterred. “It doesn’t have to be a romantic one, for heaven’s sake! But there’s something going on here, and you need to talk about it.”

“What’s there even to talk  _ about? _ ” Tucker says impatiently.

“Well, safe words for one, and a conversation about limits—” he pauses at the look on Tucker’s face, alarmed. “You  _ do _ have a safe word, right?”

“Well—it wasn’t—shit happened so fast—“ He stops, face heating up with a mixture of guilt and embarrassment. “Look, I would have stopped if he’d asked, okay? I’m not gonna  _ hurt _ him.”

“Intentionally,” he corrects. “If he two of you are going to keep…doing these things, then you absolutely  _ must _ talk about this-“

“He would’ve told me to stop if he needed to!”

Donut raises his eyebrows. “You really think so? Everything you know about  _ Wash _ , and you think he would’ve been able to tell you to stop?”

It’s as if he’s hit him across the face. Tucker blinks, a little stunned. “I…”

“Sometimes,” Donut says slowly, “it can be easier to say a silly word than to say no. Like when I say chrysanthemum— _ bam _ , it’s over, just like that!”

Tucker huffs, trying to imagine a conversation in which he discussed safe words with Wash. “Look, there’s no guarantee we’re even gonna do this again, so—”

“Well, then,” Donut says with a shrug “sounds like it’s a non-issue.”

“Right.” Tucker pauses. “But, like. If we  _ do _ . That’s all we need? To have a safe word?”

“No, Tucker,” Donut says, exasperated, “That’s  _ not _ all you need. You have to talk about limits, and you have to make sure you’re tying your knots properly so you don’t hurt him—“

“I just  _ said _ I’m not gonna fucking hurt him,” Tucker says, even the memory of Wash’s bruised wrists creeps into his mind.

“But you  _ did _ hurt him,” Donut says, his voice sharpening again at once. “No, don’t get up! I  _ know _ you didn’t mean to, Tucker, but you  _ did _ .”

“How the fuck would you know?”

“Because he shouldn’t have been wandering around the training room like that this morning!” Donut exclaims. “He shouldn’t have gone fifteen hours without eating! Gosh, the way he leaned into you—Tucker, whatever you’re doing is intense enough that you’re putting him into  _ subspace _ . It’s…it’s a thing when he’s completely focused on you, and what you’re telling him to do, and you need to help him come down from that. I’m not sure you’re giving Wash the sort of aftercare that he needs. Have you tried chocolate? Wash likes sugar, that might help!”

“I—of course I haven’t—why would I give him— who just has  _ chocolate _ —” Tucker stops, face flushing. “I don’t—I don’t know what you—this is stupid—”

Donut waits for Tucker to mumble himself into silence before speaking again. “How much time  _ do _ you spend with Wash after you have sex?”

“I don’t,” Tucker says blankly. “I—he always looks kind of weird, so I just leave to give him his space… _ what? _ ”

He stops at the horrified look on Donut’s face. “Oh, Tucker…”

“Don’t  _ ‘oh Tucker’ _ me!” Tucker snaps, voice rising despite himself. “You know what, I don’t have to listen to this—”

“Lavernius Tucker,  _ you sit right back down on that bed!” _

Tucker pauses, startled, when Donut rises to block his way to the door.  _ “Sit _ . And give me your wine glass.”

Tucker sits as Donut fills up his wine glass, breathing heavily. “Wash doesn’t want me to hang around after sex,” Tucker can’t stop himself from saying. “He doesn’t! He wants me to get the fuck out of there—”

“No, Tucker,” Donut says. “He doesn’t.”

“And how the fuck do you know?”

“Because of the way he was looking at you today! Tucker—Wash wants you to take care of him! He wants to know that he did a good job! That you pleased him—”

“What—I  _ came _ , didn’t I? If that doesn’t say,  _ hey, good job dude _ then I don’t what does—”

“This isn’t funny, Tucker!”

“I didn’t say it—”

“ _ You need to take care of him _ ,” Donut emphasizes. “You need to—to  _ cuddle _ with him! Tell him he did good! Make sure he’s eating, and drinking! You  _ know _ Wash—you know he doesn’t do these things on a normal day! What do you think he’s like after you leave and he’s all dehydrated and sore and still—still focused on  _ you? _ ”

“I—he’s not—look, I still don’t see how this is my problem—if Wash needs something he should  _ tell _ me—”

_ “Of course  _ he should tell you! You’re both acting like absolute idiots! But you have to understand that  _ you’re _ the one in control here! You putting him into subspace and not helping him come down from this- what I saw this morning, that was a  _ subdrop _ and that’s on  _ you _ . You’re the one with all the power over someone who isn’t very good at expressing his limits!  You need to do this  _ right! _ ”

“But—”

“What if it that had happened on a mission?”

“What?”

“What if this morning had been a mission, and Wash went on it in that state? Disoriented and shaky and dehydrated, without having eaten? What do you think would’ve happened?”

Tucker can feel the blood draining from his face as he imagines exactly what would’ve happened. If Wash had been out there in the field with other people, when Tucker wasn’t around to talk him down. If he’d had a gun in his hand. If his reaction time hadn’t been quick enough—

“I didn’t know,” Tucker said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Donut, I didn’t know.”

“I know,” Donut says. “I know, and I believe you. But Tucker, now you do.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Tucker mumbles.

“Do you want to keep doing this with him?” Donut asks, and Tucker nods. “Why?”

“Because it’s hot,” Tucker answers automatically, then sighs when Donut gives him a look. “Fine. It’s…nice, alright? It’s nice to see him like that. All relaxed and shit. Not stressed out and trying to do twenty things at once. I think he needs that and I can get him that way. Me. It makes me feel…”

_ Like I can do something right. _

But he stops there, locking the words down tight, staring at his lap.

“Well, then, you know what you need to do.”

Tucker pauses then and thinks. Thinks about the tension in Wash’s body during the day—during training, during meetings, even during the mess hall. Thinks about how he’s known Wash for years and how he’d thought that tension was simply a part of him. Thinks of the way his own mind settled when he had Wash beneath him, when he pushed and prodded until Wash finally let go. Thinks of the confident, easy control, starting in his sternum and spreading out to his very fingers and toes.

Tucker jumps when he feels Donut’s hand land on his shoulder, steady and comforting. “Just talk to him silly. Okay?”

Thinks of Wash trembling in his room, as everything else melts away.

“Alright, fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Tucker takes a deep breath. “I’ll talk to him.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Wash.  _ Wash _ , wake up.”

The words cut through the fog of sleep like a blade, and Wash wakes up swinging. His movements are sluggish and slow, and he’s still struggling to fully open his eyes when the voice comes again. “Wash, relax. It’s me.”

He blinks enough clarity back into his eyes to make out a shock of red. For a moment, he thinks Sarge is in his room, before he blinks again and realizes it’s Carolina, helmet held down at her side. She’s standing clear across the room, frowning at him. He should have realized right away that it was Carolina. No one but her had the sense to attempt to wake him from a distance, no matter how many times he told the others.

“What is it?” he asks groggily, swinging his legs to the side of the bed. “Wha’ happened, was there an attack—?”

“Wash.” She’s by his side now, one hand on his shoulder to push him firmly back when he attempts to stand. “Everything’s fine. I just came to check on you.”

“At this hour?”

Carolina gives him a strange look. “Wash, it’s past noon. You slept for sixteen hours.”

_ That _ wakes him up. “I  _ what?! _ ” he lunges for the datapad by his bed and brings it up to his face, horrified to see that Carolina is right. “What—why didn’t anyone wake me?!”

“Because I told them not to,” she says calmly. “You needed to rest—”

“You told people not to wake me? Carolina! I missed drills—I missed that—that  _ meeting _ , wasn’t there a meeting? I—”

“Wash.”

Something in her voice makes him stop, eyes dropping to his lap when he feels hers boring into him. “Are you okay?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” he asks sharply.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because of this?” She lifts a hand, ruffling his hair gently by the bandage covering his head wound, and it all comes rushing back: training with Sarge. Hitting the ground. Tucker’s hands on his face, in his hair. Bandaging his head. His wrists. Wash glances down at them suddenly, relieved to find that he’s still wearing the sweatshirt he stole from Grif. The cuffs of the sweatshirt come to the middle of his palms, safely hiding the bandages from view.

“It was just a surface wound,” Wash says. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

“I’m not talking about the wound, Wash. I’m talking about how you got it.”

“Well, if you recall, I was sparring with Sarge, and didn’t block his punch. Sometimes when that happens, people get hit—”

“Stop it,” she snaps. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Wash, you’ve been acting weird for weeks now. Your reaction time is slower. You aren’t paying attention in meetings. You’re not eating. You’ve been exhausted, even though you’re sleeping more than ever.”

“Everyone’s always telling me to sleep more, so what’s the problem?” He’s aware that his voice sounds sulky, like a child’s, but he doesn’t care. “And I am  _ too  _ eating.”

“Are you sick? Maybe you should go see Grey—I could come with you.”

“Carolina, I’m fine,” he says, voice sharpening further still. “Just drop it, alright? I’m sorry I missed practice. It won’t happen again.”

“I don’t give a damn about you missing practice,” she snaps. “I’m not your leader anymore, and I wish you’d stop acting like it.”

Her words send a burst of guilt through him, and he shifts uncomfortably. “Then what do you want from me?”

“I just want to know that you’re okay.”

He stands abruptly, reaching for the canteen at his bedside. “I’m fine. Please, just drop it.”

After a moment, she stands as well. “Alright, Wash. Just….take care of yourself.”

“Will do.”

Wash spends some time fiddling with his canteen until he hears her leave, the door shutting quietly behind her. He takes a breath, running his hands through his hair, trying to still the fluttering of his heart. Everything still feels fuzzy, and Carolina’s right: he’s still exhausted despite having slept for so long. He wants nothing more than to curl back up in his own bed and sleep for the next week.

An image blooms to life inside his head: crawling back not into his own bed, but into Tucker’s. Tucker’s arms around him, Tucker’s fingers in his hair, Tucker’s legs tangled up with his own. Tucker is  _ irresistibly _ warm, and Wash thinks that spending the night with him must be akin to cuddling with a small furnace. He could lay his head on Tucker’s chest, listen to his heartbeat, maybe make Tucker laugh so that he could hear the sound vibrate up through his ribcage and—

The thought fills him with warmth, and he feels a slow, stupid smile spreading across his face before he can stop it. He  _ does _ need to change the bandage on his head, and it had felt so nice when Tucker had done it. Maybe he could ask him to—

Wash slams that line of thought down immediately, the smile slipping off his face. What was wrong with him lately? He wasn’t—they weren’t—he can change his  _ own _ goddamn bandage, and judging by how quickly Tucker left after they slept together, he doesn’t want to  _ cuddle _ . Neither does Wash, for fuck’s sake. “Get a grip,” he mutters to himself. He shoves all thoughts of Tucker aside, yanks on his armor piece by piece, and stomps out the door.

* * *

It’s a thoroughly unproductive day. No one seems inclined to let him do much of anything, and he barely escapes an infirmary visit with Dr. Grey by the skin of his teeth. Wash doesn’t know why he even bothered getting out of bed, let alone putting his armor on. At least he doesn’t have to worry about filtering his face when people ask him if he’s alright—which they do, often.

Dinner in the mess hall is an awkward, sulky affair for everyone involved. Between Donut attempting to sneak extra portions of food onto Wash’s plate when he thinks Wash isn’t looking, and Sarge loudly attempting to change the bandage on Wash’s head (it takes Wash a few minutes to realize that this strange desire is born entirely out of trying to impress Dr. Grey), and Tucker pointedly not looking at him, Wash has had enough. He shoves the rest of his dinner at Caboose, who happily accepts the tray, snatches the bandages Sarge is waving around his head, and storms off to the closest locker room. It’s blessedly empty, and he wastes no time in removing his helmet, gloves, and gauntlets. He peels back the forearms of his undersuit, angrily ripping at the tape securing the bandages to his wrists with his teeth. To his dismay, the wounds are still rather raw, and Wash sets to work trying to replicate Tucker’s neat bandaging from yesterday. He’s just about to give up in his attempts to wrap them when the door opens, and Tucker himself walks in, helmet off and held against his hip.

Wash freezes, hands full of tape and gauze, and his heart does not skip a beat. Okay, maybe it  _ does _ , but it’s only because he’s startled.  _ Not _ because the sight of Tucker fills him with a relief so intense it makes his knees week. The relief, however, quickly morphs into suspicion: it’s too much of a coincidence, Tucker walking in here after Wash had had a stupid hope only hours earlier that Tucker might change his bandages.

Tucker, however, doesn’t look surprised to see him in the slightest, and Wash frowns a little. “Did you follow me in here?”

Tucker scratches at the back of his head, looking awkward. “Uh. Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

“Thought you might…” Tucker gestures. “Need some help. With that.”

Wash follows his gaze to the bandages in his hand. “Oh. Uh. That’s okay, I’m fine.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “Okay, but Sarge was right. It’s gonna be way easier if someone else changes those.”

“I  _ said _ I’m fine,” Wash stays stubbornly. He rips a piece of fresh tape off with his teeth, attempts to secure it to the gauze around his wrist, and drops the whole mess on the floor. “Ah, dammit…”

“Okay, what if I just hold it and you can put the tape on?”

“I—it doesn’t—look, it’s fine—”

He nearly drops the tap again, and Tucker sighs, breath whooshing out sharply. “Wash, just _ come over here _ .”

Something in his brain slots into place at Tucker’s words, and he finds himself dropping the gauze and tape into the sink and stepping towards Tucker immediately. It’s as if there was a glass vase inside his skull, rattling around, and Tucker reached out and steadied it with those words alone. There is no more need to worry if he should handle this on his own, or if Tucker really meant it when he said he’d help. Tucker told him to to go over there, and Wash went. Simple. Easy. Freeing.

Tucker blinks at him, startled, as Wash stands in front of them, holding his wrists out wordlessly. “You—oh. Uh, okay.”

Tucker sets his own gloves and helmet aside and takes the backs of Wash’s hands in his own, lifting his wrists to eye level. Wash holds his breath, standing perfectly still, and lets Tucker turn his hands every which way. “Yeah,” Tucker says. “Yeah, I think you should leave these bandaged for another day or so. Here, I’ll do it.”

Wash can’t stop his mouth from twitching up in the edges of a smile, which he furiously wrests off of his traitorous face immediately. God, what is the  _ matter _ with him?

If Tucker notices, he doesn’t comment, just gets to work bandaging Wash’s wrists. A part of him wants to push, to refuse, to insist that he’s fine and storm around the bathroom until Tucker  _ makes him _ hold still—but he can’t do it. The warmth from Tucker’s fingertips feels too good, and the closeness of his body is intoxicating. Wash closes his eyes when Tucker carefully removes the bandage from his temple as well, securing a new one. He can’t quite be sure, but he  _ thinks _ Tucker’s hands linger a little longer than necessary, and when he finishes smoothing the tape over the bandage, he runs his fingers through Wash’s hair once, a long, slow drag that pulls a sharp gasp out of Wash.

He waits for Tucker to ask if he’s okay, the way that everyone else has been doing, but he doesn’t, just lets his hand fall from Wash’s hair and regards him closely. His gaze is far more piercing and pointed than any questions about his well-being, but Wash does not look away, just continues to meet his gaze, and lets Tucker look for whatever he’s trying to find.

Something settles in his eyes, expression wiping itself clean in a way that’s entirely unlike him. “I’ll, uh. I’ll see you soon, alright?”

Wash nods, not trusting himself to speak, and when Tucker leaves, he feels relief and disappointment swell within him, although he could not possibly say why. Perhaps it doesn’t matter—

_ No. _

Wash turns to look himself in the mirror, eyes narrowing. No, it  _ does _ matter, because Tucker matters, and so does the relief and disappointment he’d felt at Tucker’s departure, and Wash is going to  _ figure it out. _

Relief. Start there. He felt relieved because….because Tucker was leaving? Because he was finally alone?

Even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it isn’t true. No, he’d felt relieved because Tucker had said he’d  _ see him again _ —and disappointed because that time wasn’t  _ now _ . Relief, and disappointment, because when Tucker is around, he feels…

He feels….

_ Better. _

Wash closes his eyes, leaning forward until his forehead rests against the cool glass of the locker room mirror, and tries to think. His thoughts feel jumbled, and no matter how he tries to separate them, he can’t do it. He only knows that when Tucker is around, he doesn’t feel so confused, doesn’t feel the weight of a thousand decisions all but crushing him. No matter how infuriating he is, no matter how they argue, he knows that Tucker would never ever, mean him serious harm. He can  _ trust _ Tucker, to hurt him without actually hurting him, to help wipe his mind clean, if only for a little while.

But now it seems that Tucker wants to keep his distance, and Wash isn’t sure why. He must’ve done something wrong, something to push him away, but maybe it wasn’t hopeless.  _ Maybe _ , if he got under Tucker’s skin enough, Tucker would want to push him again.

Wash lifts his head from the mirror and grins at his reflection, gathering up the spare tape and gauze.  _ Well _ , he thinks as he leaves the bathroom,  _ at least  _ that _ shouldn’t take too long. _

* * *

Five days.

Five days go by before he’s able to get a reaction out of Tucker, and Wash spends all five days utterly flabbergasted. He’d been pushing and pushing and  _ pushing _ , and Tucker hadn’t risen to the bait  _ once _ —until finally, Wash can see the exact moment when something settles in Tucker’s eyes, when he decides that he’s going to take Wash back to his room.

The thing is, it isn’t a moment that Wash was expecting, or even one that he planned.

It’s not when Wash gives Tucker and Grif a thorough dressing down for getting half the cadets drunk in the war meeting room at two in the morning. It’s not when he and Tucker get into a tiff over who gets the last cup of coffee in the mess hall. It’s not even when they’re paired together during hand to hand drills, bodies fitting together in a way so familiar it’s alarming, limbs slipping and sliding and pushing, pushing, pushing. It’s not even when Wash pins Tucker to the mat during said drills and spends five minutes lecturing him on the proper use of the mount position.  _ Nothing _ . No snark, no cheek, not even a  _ bowchickabowwow _ .

No, it’s when Wash returns from a routine supply run that came entirely too close to disaster. One of the cadets had triggered a tripwire at one of their usual stockpiles, and they’d escaped by the skin of their teeth. He can feel Tucker’s eyes on him the entire time he debriefs Kimball, answering every one of her questions and recounting, over and over the details of what happened. But it’s not even  _ then _ that Tucker takes him aside.

It’s later that evening in the mess hall, when he finds Wash pushing food around his dinner tray, staring listlessly ahead. His bones feel brittle inside his skin, pulled taut like a bowstring and ready to snap under the slightest pressure. Kimball’s words—  _ too close, too close, too close— _ keep rattling around in his brain, and he can’t stop himself from going over the mission in his head, the  _ what-ifs  _ spiraling out into endless iterations. What if he hadn’t checked the main entrance himself? What if he hadn’t gotten Palomo out of the way of that explosion in time?  _ What if—? _

“Dude, seriously?”

Wash jumps as Tucker’s voice sounds behind him. _ “What?”  _ he asks testily. “What now?”

Tucker appears on his side, reaching around to prod at a substantial pile of shredded napkins. Wash hadn’t even realized he was ripping them up, nor that there was one in his hands right now. “What are you all freaked out about? The mission went fine.”

“I know it did,” Wash snaps, ripping a fresh napkin in half violently. “Considering that I just gave a two-hour debriefing on it.”

“Alright, alright,” Tucker says, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t leave, just continues to stand there at Wash’s side while he tears the napkin to bits.

“It almost wasn’t, though,” Wash bursts out. “We got lucky. Next time we might not. I have to—to go over everything, make sure I don’t make a mistake like that again—”

“Okay.” Tucker’s hand lands on top of his own as Wash reaches for another napkin. “You gotta cut this shit out.”

“But—”

He gasps as Tucker’s other hand comes up to loop around the back of Wash’s neck, a warm, weighted pressure at the base of his skull. His eyes slam shut like iron doors, body leaning back into Tucker’s touch, and he lets Tucker pry the napkin out of his limp hands. “Alright, just settle the fuck down. Come on. We’re going to my room.”

The hand on his neck slides up into his hair to give a single firm tug, and Wash rises immediately. He follows Tucker out of the mess hall and through the halls, until Tucker is unlocking the door to his room and tugging Wash inside by the wrist.

The moment the door closes behind him, Wash can feel some of the tension brought on by the mission leave him, replaced by a far more welcome anticipation, curling low in his belly. He can’t help himself, surging forward at once to capture Tucker’s face between his own, pressing their lips together in a kiss that he hopes isn’t too desperate. Tucker responds immediately, his hands traveling to Wash’s hair and tugging the strands. They sway a little until Wash’s back hits the door, trapped between Tucker’s body and the wall, and he moans in relief at the sensation.  _ God _ , he’s needed this, needed Tucker to take him apart, to punish him, to  _ wreck _ him, utterly and completely.

But Tucker pulls back before even a minute has gone by, hands sliding down to the sides of Wash’s hair. “Fuck,” he gasps, looking a little dazed. “Hold up. Fuck, you’re  _ way _ too good at that. Your fucking  _ mouth _ —”

Wash grins a little, pleased, leaning in to press his lips to Tucker’s ear. “Just tell me what you want me to do with it,” he whispers, and Tucker shudders against him, pressing Wash more firmly into the door. “I can get on my knees, but you’ll have to  _ make me _ —”

Tucker groans, but it’s a frustrated sound as a he pulls away from Wash, putting a palm on his chest. “Holy shit,  _ Wash _ —alright. Just hold on.”

Wash frowns, trying to ignore the unexpected hurt that lances through him. “What’s wrong?”

Tucker looks uncomfortable suddenly, his free hand tugging absently at his dreads the way he always does when he’s nervous. “I, uh…fuck.”

A horrible thought suddenly occurs to Wash, and he feels his face heat up in mortification. “Oh,  _ god _ —that’s not why you called me in here, is it?”

“What—no! I mean yes! I mean— _ yes _ , that’s exactly why I called you in here. To fuck you,” Tucker clarifies, and Wash relaxes slightly. “I just, uh…maybe we should talk about this?”

Wash stares at him. “Talk about what?”

“You know…” Tucker removes the hand from Wash’s chest so that he can wave both arms around vaguely, as if hoping that will clear things up. It doesn’t. “The  _ sex _ .”

The mortified feeling is back suddenly, and Wash swallows hard. “What’s there to talk about?”

Tucker doesn’t answer right away, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s looking for the words, and Wash’s eyes widen. “Is it…is it not good for you? Oh, god, it’s not, is it? You hate it. Do you hate it? If I fucked something up, you can tell me, and I can fix it. Unless you don’t want me to fix it, in which case—”

“Wash, shut up!” Tucker says, his hands flapping in frustration. “You didn’t fuck anything up! For fuck’s sake, you’re perfect—”

He stops then, diverting his eyes, and Wash can’t stop that stupid, moony smile from spreading across his face. “Oh.”

Tucker looks at him, exasperated. “Yeah.  _ Oh _ .”

“Then…if it’s not that, what’s this about?”

“It’s about… _ look _ . Some of the stuff we do can get—I just don’t want to hurt you, alright?”

“But I want you to hurt me,” Wash says blankly.

Tucker closes his eyes briefly, rubbing at his face with his hands. “Jesus, Wash, are you trying to _ kill me? _ ”

“I  _ do, _ though! It…it feels good.”

“I know, that’s not what I—I just think…think…” Tucker removes his hands from his face, tipping his head up to speak to the ceiling. “ _ Thinkeeneedasafwor _ .”

“I’m…sorry?”

“A safe word!” Tucker says loudly. “ _ Christ!  _ We should probably have one, alright?”

Wash frowns. “But why?”

“You know,” Tucker says. He shifts, uncomfortable. “We should…have a word that you can say. If you. Want me. To, uh. To stop. I mean, I  _ would _ stop if you said stop, but if we had some stupid word like—like a…fruit, or something, then…maybe that would be easier…”

Tucker trails off, his head dropping back down to look Wash in the eyes. Wash can feel the frown on his face deepening, arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t need to tell you to stop.”

“Okay, you don’t  _ now _ , but you might  _ someday _ —”

“I can handle this, Tucker,” Wash says sharply. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t—”

“I  _ know _ , but—dude, you’ve had a lot of crazy shit happen to you. I don’t wanna do something that’s gonna freak you out! Like…” Tucker brightens suddenly. “Like okay, so for me—if we ever mix it up, blindfolds are a  _ big _ fucking nope. ‘Cause I’m afraid of the dark.”

Wash stares at him, startled. “I didn’t know that.”

Tucker shrugs, not a hint of embarrassment on his face. “Well, now you do.”

He’s quiet for a moment, still reeling over the fact that Tucker just  _ told him that, _ with no prompting. A strange emotion bubbles quietly in his chest, and it takes a moment for Wash to identify it: envy.

He cannot possibly fathom that kind of bravery.

“So?” Tucker prompts. “You got anything like that?”

“No,” Wash snaps. He’s growing more flustered by the minute, and can’t quite understand why. “I don’t have anything like that. And this conversation is stupid. Look, can we just get this going?”

Hurt flickers across Tucker’s face, but before Wash can feel guilty, Tucker sweeps it away, shrugging smoothly. “You know what? Fine. Just fucking forget it. This  _ was _ stupid.”

For a moment, he thinks Tucker’s going to kick him out, but he just storms over to his bed, yanking out a box and opening it. “Get on the bed.”

Wash does, sitting on the edge and eying what Tucker is holding. “What are those?”

“What do they look like?” Tucker snaps. “They’re cuffs.”

Wash frowns. “They’re  _ fabric _ cuffs.”

_ “And?” _

“What happened to the metal ones?”

Tucker drops the cuffs to his side, staring at Wash incredulously. “Dude, seriously? They cut your fucking wrists all up!”

Wash flushes. “So?”

“So?  _ So, _ maybe I don’t like to see you fucking  _ bleeding _ , Wash!”

“What’s the big deal? You didn’t even notice!”

Tucker’s face crumples in guilt at that, and Wash rapidly tries to backtrack. “Wait—that’s not what I meant. I meant, you didn’t catch it, right? So what’s the problem?”

“You really don’t see a fucking problem with that?!”

“The only problem I see,” Wash says evenly, “is that you brought me here to fuck and so far, haven’t done anything except tell me that you think I can’t handle whatever you throw at me. I can handle it. I want to handle it. So why don’t you stop talking, come over here, and do something about that?”

Tucker kisses him, his body crashing into Wash’s so fiercely that they both tumble onto the bed. His kisses are hot and desperate and a little angry, and yes.  _ Yes _ . This is better, this is what he wanted, this is what he _ needed _ . Tucker’s hands find the hem of his shirt and tug into he tears it gracelessly over Wash’s head, then hastily removes his own. He takes Wash’s wrists in his hands, pins them to the bed, and kisses him again, harder, deeper, more desperately. Wash tugs against Tucker’s grip and Tucker presses him more firmly into the mattress and just like that, the tension turns to smoke in Wash’s bones. He doesn’t have to think anymore, because Tucker will take care of, will take care of everything.

Their bare chests slide together, heartbeat to heartbeat as Tucker bites hard at his neck. Wash is gasping and groaning and barely notices as Tucker yanks his wrists above his head and somehow manages to secure the cuffs around Wash’s wrists and the bed frame without missing a beat. Tucker pulls back slightly only when he’s done, to make a show out of testing the restraints and looking at Wash, stretched out beneath him, and Wash breaths heavily and tries not to lose his mind too soon.

“There,” Tucker says softly, fingertips trailing down Wash’s chest. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Yes,” Wash moans, as Tucker’s hands dip lower and lower down his abs. “God, yes…”

Tucker’s fingertips dance along the waistband of his fatigues, but he does not bring them any lower. He just runs his hands back up Wash’s body, over his chest, his shoulders, his arms, through his hair, as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of him. Wash watches, enthralled, and  _ god _ , Tucker is beautiful. He’s  _ beautiful _ , dreads slightly tousled, eyes calm and sure, hands warm and confident, and Wash could honestly look at him all day.

Tucker leans back down to kiss him, and it sends an almost dizzying wave of want through Wash. He tugs instinctively at his bindings, desperate to run his fingers across Tucker’s skin, his hair, his lips, but he can’t get any closer. The soft fabric of the restraints slides along his wrists and—

_ “I’m so sorry, Agent Washington,” his nurse says, and she sounds it, she really does, “but if you won’t take these pills, it’s the only way.” _

_ He knows that struggling is pointless, but he does it anyway, yanking hard against the restraints. “No,” he gasps, only it comes out like a sob. “No—I won’t take them—you can’t make me—” _

_ But they can make him. They can make him do whatever they want, can pump whatever they want into his system and he can’t do anything to stop it, because he’s been strapped down to this bed like an animal for god knows how long, and— _

Tucker’s lips press against his cheek, and Wash forces his eyes back open, gasping. Tucker. Here’s here with Tucker, on this base, on Rockslide—no no,  _ Chorus _ , they’re on Chorus. He’s tied to the bed but it’s okay because he likes it, this isn’t—it isn’t  _ like _ his time in the hospital, with the pills and the restraints and the nightmares he could never wake up from. Tucker’s here, taking care of him, one hand wound tight in Wash’s hair while the other drags across the planes of his stomach. Tucker’s here, and everything is going to be—

_ “—going to be alright, Agent Washington,” the nurse says soothingly. “These pills are just to help you relax, that’s all. You aren’t sleeping—” _

_ “I can’t sleep,” he gasps, or cries, or screams. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he makes them understand that sleeping isn’t an option, not now, not tonight, not  _ ever _. “Please don’t make me sleep, please—” _

_ But the needle goes into his arm anyway and he struggles with all his might because he has to make her understand what it’s like, being trapped inside those nightmares. He can’t sleep, can’t, can’t, can’t— _

“Can’t,” Wash mumbles. “I  _ can’ _ t…”

Tucker pauses, lifting his head from Wash’s neck. “What?”

“I can’t sleep,” Wash says, because it’s important that Tucker  _ knows _ this—he doesn’t want him to stop, but he can’t sleep, as long as Tucker doesn’t make him  _ sleep _ then—

Tucker gives a funny little laugh, and it cuts through some of the thick fog settling in Wash’s brain. “Think I can help with that, dude.”

He returns his lips to Wash’s collarbone, and Wash closes his eyes, focusing hard on the sensations. Tucker’s lips, pillow-soft on his neck. The flutter of his breath against Wash’s skin. The warmth of his body, one leg hooked around  Wash’s. Hands in Wash’s hair, on his face. His weight, pressing Wash comfortably down into the bed. The slightly itchy fabric of the cloth restraints—

_ “Please take them off,” Wash begs, and his nurse sighs, glancing at the door before sitting on the edge of his bed. _

_ “Agent— _ Wash. _ I can’t. You  _ know _ I can’t. Not—not until we know you aren’t going to hurt yourself—” _

_ “I won’t,” he says frantically. “I won’t, I swear, I swear, just—please, you have to take them off, I’m going  _ crazy _ —” _

_ But his nurse isn’t listening to him. She’s withdrawing a syringe from her pocket and Wash knows what that is, it’s one of the drugs that makes him sleep and he can’t sleep, he _ won’t  _ sleep, and he starts to thrash, cringing away from her as best he can— _

“Wash.  _ Wash _ , are you okay?”

His body jolts under Tucker’s as he snaps back into awareness, forcing his eyes open. Tucker’s face is inches from his own, a frown stitched between his eyebrows. His expression changes to one of alarm as their eyes lock, and Wash gives his head a little shake. “I’m—I’m fine—”

His voice sounds high and panicked even to his own ears, and he clears his throat to try again. “I’m—”

_ “—fine, I swear, I swear I’m fine! Please, I’m not going to do anything, please don’t make me take those, don’t, don’t—” _

“Wash! Dude, c’mon, look at me. What’s up?”

Tucker. That’s Tucker’s voice, those are Tucker’s hands on either side of his face, that’s Tucker’s warmth holding him down—

But Tucker is pulling away, pushing himself up and away from Wash. Panic slams into him at once as Tucker’s comforting weight leaves him, his mind loose and floating without its only anchor. The breath tangles in his chest and catches there and he’s not sure, suddenly, if this is real—he can barely see Tucker through his shaking, spotty vision, can no longer feel the warmth of his body. He can only feel the restraints, horribly soft around his wrists, and no matter how much he struggles he can’t get them  _ off _ —

“Wash! Wash, hold still, I’m trying to get these off of you—”

The words only make him thrash harder, cringing away from the person above him. “Wait, wait, don't!”

“What—Wash, holy shit, these need to come off  _ now _ —”

_ “Please _ don’t,” he begs, and he knows, he  _ knows _ he sounds hysterical but maybe if they _ hear that _ they’ll finally  _ listen _ — “please don’t make me take those, please don’t make me sleep, please—”

He thrashes hard, head tossed, legs kicking out, arms tugging frantically at the restraints. It’s pointless, it’s always pointless but he has to try, they are going to stick needles in him and make him sleep and he won’t be able to wake up from the nightmares—

The person’s hands jump away from his wrists once more as he struggles even harder. “Wash! Wash, calm down, it’s me, it’s Tucker!”

“Please don’t make me, please, please—”

“Wash, I’m not going to make you do anything—I’m trying to help, just hold still!”

“Please just leave me here— _ just let me die, _ please—”

For a moment, there is nothing but silence: no more protests, no more hands grasping at his wrists. Wash thinks it may have worked, that they have stopped trying to give him the pills, but that means that he’s alone and that’s worse, that’s worse than  _ anything _ —

“Wait,” he moans, glancing around wildly, trying to catch a glimpse of someone, anyone— “wait, I’m sorry,  _ I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, _ please don’t leave me alone—”

“I won’t.”

Hands. There are hands on either side of his head, palms pressing into his skin, tilting his head back until he meets someone’s eyes, walnut-brown and warm and steady on his own. “Hey,” the person says, and Wash’s vision expands further out to see a face leaning upside down over his own. There’s someone standing over his bed, fingertips stroking along his cheeks, palms rubbing soothing circles into his temples. Wash knows those eyes, that voice, that touch—

_ “ _ Tuc—ker,” he chokes out. Tucker’s here. Tucker’s on his side, Tucker’s on his team—m _ y name is Agent Washington I’m the leader of Blue Team _ —Tucker has come for him before. “Tucker—Tucker, please help me,  _ please, please _ —”

Tucker’s jaw clenches, and he nods once. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got ya. Gonna take these restraints off now, okay? I just need you to hold  _ still _ .”

It’s Wash’s turn to nod, although he tenses when one of Tucker’s hands slides off his face. “It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I’m not leaving—just gonna take this one off, yeah?”

Wash hesitates, then nods again. He keeps his eyes on Tucker’s as Tucker slides his hand along Wash’s arm to his wrist, and with a couple of tugs, undoes the clasp. Wash gasps as his wrist falls free, and Tucker undoes the other one, and then he’s free, lurching up to a sit, floundering until—

_ —put your back to the wall— _

He does, scrambling back against the wall, clenching his hands into fists. He can breathe again, each inhalation a sharp punch to his chest, but his stomach is roiling as if he’s going to be sick. Tucker comes to stand in front of him, his eyes wide, and Wash has to ask, has to know—

“Is this real?”

“I know it looks like you dreamed me up, but baby, I’m all real.”

Something loosens in Wash’s chest, and he nods. “I’m…on Chorus?”

“Yeah. Chorus. Do, uh…you know who I am?”

“Tucker,” Wash says. “You’re Tucker.”

Wash takes a deep breath, scrubbing his hands through his hair and along his face, freezing when he realizes that his cheeks are wet. He pulls his hands back, mortified, because his hands are trembling so hard he can barely control them, and those are  _ tears _ on his face, and a lot of them by the feel of it.

“Do, uh…” Tucker clears his throat. “Do you want me to go?”

_ No. _

Wash locks the word down in his throat, unable to meet Tucker’s eyes. He has no right to ask Tucker to stay, not after this. After a minute, Tucker shifts uncomfortably, taking a hesitant step towards the door, and Wash speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Tucker pauses. “What?”

Looking at him feels impossible, but Wash forces himself to do it anyway. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and goddammit, why won’t his hands stop  _ shaking?  _ “I…I’ll do better.”

Tucker’s face falls for the briefest of moments, devastation weighing heavy on his features, before he draws himself up, something solidifying on his face. “Yeah,” Tucker says slowly. “Yeah, fuck this.”

He climbs onto the bed with Wash, leaning against the wall and pulling Wash to his chest. Wash tenses, inhaling sharply, the punch of air in his chest as intense as a gunshot, but Tucker just tightens his arms until Wash lets out a long, shuddering breath, his body melting against Tucker’s. Tucker tucks his head over top of Wash’s, chin on the top of his head.

They don’t move. It feels so good that Wash thinks he may never move again, the panic and anxiety leeched out of him like poison the longer Tucker holds him. They both have their shirts off, and Wash tries to remember the last time he laid like this, skin to skin, with someone. Tucker is so warm it shouldn’t be allowed, and he presses his face into the crook between Tucker’s head and his shoulder, their hearts beating inches apart.

Several minutes go by, and Tucker slowly raises a hand, threading his fingers through Wash’s hair, and it feels so good Wash wants to cry. He can’t stop himself from pressing into the touch, a grateful sigh escaping, and when Tucker’s other hand begins to rub circles into his back he practically purrs. The relief is almost overwhelming, and he’s so grateful it’s dizzying. “Thank you,” he mutters, words slurring into each other.

“Don’t,” Tucker mutters, into his hair, voice thick with something like guilt, as he adjusts Wash so that he’s draped more comfortably. Wash is half lying in his lap, arms looped loosely around Tucker’s waist, face still pressed into the crook of Tucker’s neck. Slowly, slowly, his hammering heart returns to normal, and as the minutes stretch on to what has to be a half hour, Wash reluctantly begins to pull himself out of the deep, happy haze he’s fallen into. Tucker is still here, and he deserves the truth.

“It was the fabric.”

“Hmm?”

“The…the fabric. The texture. Of the restraints.”

He feels Tucker tense slightly, feels his head shift as if he’s glancing towards the restraints still hanging on the bars of his bed. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, okay.”

“They…when I was…they just…they reminded me…”

Now he can feel himself tensing, and Tucker squeezes him tightly. “Wash, you don’t have to tell me—”

“I want to.”

Tucker is silent for a moment, silent until both of their bodies start to relax once more. “Okay. Go on.”

“They felt…they felt just like the restraints that they used on me after—when I was in—in recovery. After Freelancer. After Eps—after my A.I…it was really bad. I didn’t  _ want _ to hurt myself—I didn’t mean to—but I kept thinking he was still in my head and…in the end, they had to restrain me.”

He hesitates, then continues. “I just—I didn’t want you to think it was anything you did wrong. It was the fabric. That’s all.”

“Okay, then,” Tucker says, his voice louder than normal. “We won’t use those. Fuck, I’ll throw them in the trash right now.”

“Tucker.”

“You probably need something harder, right?” Tucker says, his words coming faster still. “Like, that’s why the handcuffs and belt were okay? Maybe rope, do you think that would be alright?”

“Tucker, I’m a mess.”

“Dude, stop.”

“I  _ am _ ,” Wash insists. “I’m…we never should have…I…”

The words stick in his throat and he falls silent, closes his eyes. Tucker doesn’t say anything, just hugs Wash a little tighter to his chest. Wash knows he has to go, but Tucker isn’t telling him to leave just yet, and Wash thinks he can let himself have this, if only for a few more minutes.

Wash tucks his head against Tucker’s chest, watching out the window as the sky darkens from velvety blue to purple black, the stars dotting the horizon line like diamonds.  _ A few more minutes _ stretches on and on until Wash has lost track of time. He can hear the sounds of people moving throughout the base: laughter and heavy footfalls and the distant sound of a door slamming. Tucker’s heartbeat thuds steadily against his ear, and no matter how hard Wash tries to keep an eye on the sky—it’s getting late, so very late, and he should go soon—he can’t bring himself to leave the warmth of Tucker’s body. He can’t even keep his eyes open, and the last thing he remembers his Tucker’s lips, feather-soft in his hair, before he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Wash is used to waking up confused, no matter how familiar the space is. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever wake up with a full understanding of who and where he is, isn’t sure if he’ll ever be free of those horrifying, heart-stopping seconds during which his mind is utterly blank. But he knows, by now, which checkpoints he must mentally run through in order to jumpstart his brain into working.

This morning feels different, and he can’t quite figure out why. It lingers in the back of his mind, as he dutifully goes through his checklist:  _ my name is Agent Washington. I am the leader of Blue Team. I am on a planet called Chorus. We are in the middle of the war. There is nothing in my head. _

He mentally nods to himself, satisfied. Everything checks out, memories lined up in their neat little boxes, except, except—

He’s  _ warm _ .

Wash never wakes up warm, no matter how many blankets and sweatshirts he has managed to scrounge up the night before. Connie used to tease him about his cold feet, and she’d always shriek loud enough to wake the entire ship when he’d touch them to her calves—

The memory has no sooner crossed his mind when he realizes that he’s in bed with someone now, his back pressed tight to a warm chest. For one wild moment, he thinks it might be Connie, and that he’d gotten the memories wrong, but the person behind him is larger, and built differently, and far warmer than Connie was. Wash cracks an eye open to see strong arms wrapped around him, dark-skinned with a funny little scar on the right palm, a scar just like Tucker has—

“Dude, you really suck at this whole pretending to be asleep thing.”

Wash whips around so quickly that he nearly knocks Tucker out of the bed. Tucker sputters indignantly, his arms locking around Wash’s waist to hold himself there, and they both freeze, faces inches apart. “Smooth, Wash.”

“Shut up,” Wash says faintly, because he can’t really manage much more than that. Those are  _ Tucker’s _ arms around him, this is  _ Tucker’s _ bed he’s spent the night in, that’s  _ Tucker’s _ ankle hooked around his own—

Last night comes back to him in pieces, and he can feel his face draining of color as he remembers. The mission that almost ended in disaster. Wash scoffing as Tucker tried to talk to him.  _ Panicking _ , because—

His eyes flick up, to the head of Tucker’s bed where the fabric restraints are still hooked. Tucker follows his gaze, then sits up suddenly as he begins to unhook the restraints. “Ah, shit. Sorry, I should’ve taken these fucking things down last night…”

“It’s fine,” Wash says quickly, sitting up as well. “It’s…you don’t have to…”

Tucker wrenches them off the bars, tossing the restraints underneath the bed before turning to look at Wash. Wash can see the moment in which he steels himself, shoulders drawn back, chin lifted high, fingers clenching unconsciously like the way they always do when Tucker’s nervous. Wash wonders if he’s even aware of it. “I just wanna say one thing.”

“I…alright, go ahead.”

“Right.” Tucker takes a deep breath. “You said you were a mess.”

“I am,” Wash says before he can stop himself, then cuts himself off quickly at the look on Tucker’s face. “Sorry. Go on.”

“And like, I’m not saying you aren’t. But…” Tucker sighs, raking a hand through his dreads.  _ “Shit _ dude, so am I.”

Wash doesn’t know what he was expecting Tucker to say, but it wasn’t that. “You’re not—”

“Yes I am,” Tucker says fiercely. “Yes, I fucking am. I spent  _ years _ fighting in some bullshit war—I lost my friend—I can’t even look at a fucking  _ steak knife _ without having a nervous breakdown—I had an alien  _ baby _ , for fuck’s sake—”

He cuts himself off there, eyes sliding away from Wash’s to the wall. “I love my kid,” he says quickly. “But, uh. Yeah.”

Wash doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t dare. He has never heard Tucker talk about the circumstances of his pregnancy, not once, but the devastated look on Tucker’s face now tells him all he needs to know. Wash tries to stop the horrifying onslaught of mental images, but he doesn’t entirely succeed, and he swallows hard, reaching out to place a tentative hand on Tucker’s knee.

The soft touch seems to snap Tucker back to the present, and he gives himself a little shake, glaring at Wash. “So, yeah. That was a thing. The point is,  _ I  _ might freak out sometime too, alright? And I don’t…don’t wanna feel like I’m making you do shit you don’t want to do. That’s  _ not _ cool.”

“I know,” Wash says. “I know, and I’m…I’m sorry. You tried to talk to me and I said it was stupid. It wasn’t. I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I’m sure that was… _ unpleasant _ , and—”

“Wash.”

Wash falls silent as Tucker leans forward slightly. “It wasn’t unpleasant. It was fucking  _ terrifying _ .”

“I’m—”

“Stop. I don’t mean…” Tucker blows out a frustrated breath. “I didn’t mind dealing with it. It just sucks that it  _ happened _ , you know? Believe me, I’m totally down for some spanking action, or getting a little rough, but…I hurt you, and not in a fun way.”

“I know.” Wash gives his knee a squeeze. “I know. You were right.”

Tucker perks up at that. “Wait, can you say that again?”

Wash rolls his eyes, and Tucker grins. It doesn’t last as the silence stretches on, and eventually Tucker sighs. “So…we gotta talk about some stuff.”

“We gotta talk about some stuff,” Wash confirms.

“Ugh. Why is it so hard?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe…” Tucker hesitates. “Maybe we need to like, take a fucking break. You know? Just to…to get our fucking heads on straight.”

Wash can feel his face fall at those words and tries to compose himself, but not before Tucker sees. “I still wanna do this! I just…don’t wanna fuck it up again. Not like that. Because that sucked.”

“If we just…just don’t use those restraints again, then maybe—”

“I don’t want  _ maybe _ ,” Tucker says. “And dude…I think it’s more than the restraints. For both of us. I think we gotta like—like really think about what freaks us out. Like the blindfold thing with me! And then we can talk about it and it’ll be really fucking awkward, but….”

He hesitates for nearly a minute before plowing forward, his eyes fixed determinedly above Wash’s head. “Shit, I’d rather it be awkward than fuck you up again, alright?”

Something in Wash’s chest swells with affection as he looks at Tucker, staring over him, hands clenched into fists, bouncing on his legs. “Alright,” Wash says softly. “Alright. That sounds good. And, Tucker?”

He waits until Tucker looks at him. “I didn’t know that, about the knives. That you were avoiding them. Is that because of what happened with Felix?”

“No,” Tucker says sarcastically. His whole demeanor has changed, the lines of his body defensive. “It’s because of the  _ other _ douchey mercenary who stabbed me in the fucking gut.”

“Is that….is that why you keep skipping weapons work?”

Tucker shrugs, still avoiding Wash’s gaze, and Wash thinks of all the times in which he’d berated Tucker, loudly, for skipping practice. “Tucker, I might be able to help you with that.”

Tucker eyes him, just for a moment. “Really?”

“Really.” Wash pushes himself up a little further. “I’m pretty good with knives.”

Tucker rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know, dude. I practically pop a boner every time I watch you throw them.”

“Well, I can teach you to do that.”

Tucker meets his gaze fully this time, eyes brightening. “You can?”

“I  _ will _ ,” Wash promises. “We’ll find some time in the schedule. Promise.”

The smile that Tucker flashes him is brief but bright, and in that moment, Wash wants to promise him the world.

* * *

As it turns out, Tucker wasn’t exaggerating about his fear of knives.

They barely get two minutes into their first training session since Tucker confessed his fear when Wash starts feeling horribly guilty. Now that Tucker’s pointed it out, it’s heartbreakingly obvious how anxious he is: dropping the knife, making an endless amount of inappropriate jokes about becoming a human pin cushion, flinching every time Wash touches the training blade to his skin. He’s terrified, and Wash hadn’t even seen it until now.

Some friend he is.

It becomes clear that this is what they need to be working on, and after that, Wash makes knife-defense the focus of their training sessions. For the next two weeks, they spend their mornings working hard, and Wash throws himself into the lesson plans. He can’t fix what happened to Tucker, and he can’t undo the way he’d dismissed Tucker trying to talk to him before his disastrous panic attack, and he can’t undo said panic attack, but—he can do this. He can help Tucker be less afraid.

Wash can barely think of that day in Tucker’s room without feeling a powerful rush of guilt and regret. The guilt is easy to understand: guilt for the way he’d treated Tucker, and for making him witness Wash in that state. The regret is a little more difficult to place. He knows that Tucker suggested they take a break, but Wash can’t help feeling like he ruined his chances of—what, exactly? Chances of more incredible sex? Of soothing that restless itch inside his bones?

Of his friendship with Tucker?

He isn’t sure why it took this situation to drive that particular point home, that Tucker is indeed his friend, but for all his doubts and confusion at what the hell they were doing, letting Tucker tie him up hadn’t been one of them. He had never thought for a single second that Tucker might hurt him, or take advantage of his vulnerability. He trusts Tucker, wholly and completely, and he knows Tucker trusts him too.

More than anything, he hopes he didn’t screw that up.

* * *

Tucker makes no move to initiate any sort of conversation with Wash, but he doesn’t avoid him, either. In fact, it’s as if nothing is different between them at all, save for the new intention to their training sessions. Wash tries to follow his lead, acting as normal as possible, and it’s not until Carolina pairs them together one day during hand-to-hand drills that there’s even the slightest flicker of something different.

It happens when Tucker manages to pin him, one of Wash’s arms twisted behind his back, the other secured to the mat. “Good job,” Wash gasps, craning to look back to Tucker. “That was good.”

“Thanks,” Tucker says. He doesn’t move to let Wash up right away, and Wash doesn’t try to make him. It’s…nice, like this, Tucker’s weight on top of him, Tucker’s hands wrapped securely around his wrists. He can feel the tension leaching right out of his bones, and when Tucker squeezes his wrists a little tighter, he knows it shows.

“Geez, get a room,” Grif grunts, from where he’s trying to get out of a one-armed headlock Caboose has him in.

Tucker huffs, letting Wash up and pulling him to his feet. The training session is different after that, Tucker’s hands lingering far longer than they need to, Wash’s legs wrapping around his tighter than necessary, and by the time the session is over, he feels a little calmer. Tucker tosses him a water bottle after, winks, and saunters off to the showers.

_ Huh _ , Wash thinks. He wraps one of his own hands around his wrists, squeezing lightly, and can’t stop a smile from stretching across his face.  _ How about that. _

* * *

Tucker is already halfway through his lunch by the time Wash arrives, datapad propped up against his water as he scrolls through. The bite of steak on his fork is frozen halfway to his mouth as he reads, engrossed on what ever is on his screen, and Wash takes a seat across from him. Tucker still doesn’t notice, just keeps scrolling, and Wash grins. “Reading something interesting?”

Tucker jumps, sending both his fork and datapad flying. He retrieves the datapad hastily, shoves it into his pocket, and snatches his fork away from where Carolina caught it. “Smooth, Tucker.”

“Shut up,” he snaps at her, and begins sawing off another piece of his chicken.

Wash stares at him. “Uh, are you okay?”

“You shut up too.”

Wash shrugs, then begins to dig into his own lunch. Tucker continues eating enthusiastically, as if his lunch is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, and it takes Wash a few minutes to realize—

“Wait, you’re using a knife!”

Tucker glances from his fork, to his steak knife, to Wash in rapid succession before his face breaks into a delighted smile. “Holy shit. I am! I didn’t even think about it!”

Wash beams as Tucker tosses the knife and catches it. “That’s great, Tucker.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says enthusiastically. “Fuck yeah, it is! I wasn’t even thinking! That’s gotta be good, right?”

“I think it’s better than good.”

He can’t stop watching Tucker after that. Tucker is grinning so hard he can barely keep eating, and Wash glances down at his own plate, then back at Tucker, and takes a deep breath.“Apple.”

Tucker lowers his fork to stare at Wash. “Huh?”

“I thought…” Wash glances around, but no one else is paying them the slightest bit of attention. “I thought that could be my safe word. Apple. It could be yours, too, if you want. Or not. We can pick something else, it doesn’t—”

Tucker’s whole expression changes, eyes widening, and Wash tries to backtrack. “I mean—only if you want. We don’t have to keep—I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“Apple it is,” Tucker says with a grin. “I dig it.”

He keeps eating, as if nothing monumental just occurred, and now it’s Wash’s turn to stare. “Really?”

“Yeah dude, really.” Tucker pauses, squinting at him. “Wait, you knew I still wanted to fuck, right?”

“Yes,” Wash says quickly. “Well—I mean, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t—”

Tucker sighs, setting down his fork.  _ “Waaaaash _ .”

“Sorry,” Wash mutters. “It was just—it was a pretty intense moment, is all.”

“Yeah, and we talked about it. It’s all cool. That’s why we decided to, ya know…” Tucker gestures. “Like, think about this shit.”

“Yeah…yeah, you’re right.”

“So?” Tucker prompts. “What else? You think about anything else?”

Wash hesitates. “Well—no gags. I think, if I couldn’t talk, that would be…that would be hard.” When Tucker doesn’t say anything, just nods enthusiastically, he continues, encouraged. “Blindfolds might be okay, though. For me. But no gags. Oh, and no doctor…roleplay.”

“No gags, no doctor roleplay,” Tucker says. “Anything else?”

Wash shrugs, palms open. “That’s all. I mean, there might be other stuff, but I’m not sure what it is. Not yet. Is…is that okay?”

“Fuck yeah, dude. We can figure it out.”

“Okay.” Wash nudges at his knee. “Your turn.”

“Well,” Tucker says slowly. “I already said no blindfolds if we mix it up. So I just got two things for now. One…dude, I really,  _ really _ don’t wanna see you bleeding. I’m totally down for some spanking action, but no blood. That means no more metal cuffs. I know you don’t like the fabric, so we gotta figure something else out.”

“Fair,” Wash says slowly. “What’s the second thing?”

Tucker shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “Alright. You gotta promise me you’ll say the word if you get freaked out. I’m not gonna be like, the thing you use to hurt yourself and make yourself feel like shit. I don’t wanna find out that you were having a fucking panic attack during sex. You gotta tell me when I’m doing something wrong.”

“Alright,” Wash says. “Alright, I promise.”

“So…” Tucker shrugs. “Now what?”

“Well…you want to do a test run?”

“Fuck yeah I do,” Tucker says enthusiastically, standing up. “What, like right now? Shit dude, let’s go—”

Wash pulls him back down, laughing. “Maybe tonight?”

“Hell yeah. My room?”

“I’ll be there.”

* * *

Tucker opens the door immediately when Wash knocks on it later that night, looking at least as nervous as Wash feels. He shifts awkwardly from side to side as Wash closes the door, and they stare at each other for a few moments.

“So, uh…” Wash gestures vaguely between them. “Do you want to…?”

“Yeah,” Tucker says quickly. “Yeah, totally.”

Still neither one of them moves, and when the silence stretches on even longer, Tucker clears his throat. “Wanna make out?”

Wash snorts, and just like that, some of the tension in the room melts away. “That sounds nice.”

“Fuck yeah,” Tucker says with a grin, and he leans in, pressing Wash back against the wall, their foreheads pressed together. For a moment, they stay there, breathing into each other’s space, before Tucker closes the gap, and presses their lips together.

It is nice, kissing Tucker. It’s one of the nicest things in the world. He’d been a goner from the first moment his lips had touched Tucker’s, and that feeling is still there—that feeling of slipping, of sliding, of shaking apart beneath Tucker’s hands. The kisses are slower today, long and deep and dizzying, Wash’s hands in Tucker’s hair, Tucker’s teeth on Wash’s neck, bodies pressed flushed together. They kiss until they’re both hard, grinding slowly together against the door.

Wash whines a little when Tucker pulls back, his fingertips curling around the hem of Wash’s shirt. He pauses, eyes bright and curious. “Can I try something?”

“Yeah,” Wash says, breathless. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Tucker tugs the shirt over his arms, but does not remove it fully. He stops when the fabric is still over Wash’s eyes, and ties the sleeves together behind his head. His world plunges into darkness, and he gasps. He’s suddenly hyper aware of Tucker’s breath on his face, Tucker’s hands on his shoulders, Tucker’s hips grinding into his, and the gasp turns into a groan as he grinds back even harder. “Oh, shit….”

He can hear the grin in Tucker’s voice. “Yeah? You like that?”

“Yeah,” Wash breathes. “Yeah, I—I think I do.”

Tucker kisses him again, softer this time. “Cool.” He pauses. “You sure? Like positive? ‘Cause I can take it off if—”

Wash rolls his eyes under the blindfold, then feels guilty. “I’m sure. I’ll tell you if I don’t like it.”

“For real?”

“Yes, Tucker, for real, just…” he gestures vaguely in front of him. “Continue.”

“Right.” Tucker clears his throat. “Kay. Turn around and put your hands on the wall. Don’t move them.”

Wash frowns a little. Tucker’s never made him hold still before, has always restrained him somehow. Wash likes that, the feeling of something looped around his wrists, something physical for him to fight against. Tucker laughs a little, biting at his collarbone. “Yeah, I see you pouting. Tell you what. You put your hands on that wall and don’t move them, you get a reward. You take them down before I tell you too, you get nothing.” His palm presses against Wash’s cock, rubbing slowly, and Wash sways into Tucker’s touch with a moan. “You get nothing no matter how much you beg.”

“Alright,” Wash gasps, biting back another moan as Tucker removes his hand. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

“Good boy,” Tucker whispers. “Now, turn around.”

Wash turns around, pressing his palms firmly into the wall and gritting his teeth hard. He wants to move them the second Tucker unclasps his belt and slides his fatigues and boxers off of his hips, exposing his swollen cock. He wants to wrap a hand around his length, wants to plunge his hand into Tucker’s hair and yank him closer, wants to push, to prod, to pull. He writhes against the wall, curling his hands into fists and flattening them back out again. “ _ Tucker _ —”

The first slap to his ass drives all the air from his body, the tension leaving with a sharp gasp. “Count,” Tucker says, his voice dropping low and commanding, and everything in Wash’s body tilts towards the sound.

“One,” he manages to gasp, a giddy, breathless thing. His hips are already bearing backwards, seeking out the next slap, and Tucker delivers, his hand landing in the same exact spot. “Two…”

He’s a mess by five, head tossed, hands clenching, hips rocking forward and backwards. By eight, the strikes have shocked him into stillness, his voice coming out in a low, continuous moan between strikes. “Harder,” he moans, cheek pressed into the door. “Harder, Tucker,  _ please _ ..”

“You sure, dude? I’m hitting you pretty fucking hard.”

“Not…hard…enough,” Wash gasps. “I can take it, I swear, I  _ swear _ —”

He yelps as Tucker’s next strike lands. “N-nine.”

“Okay, that was  _ too _ hard—”

“It  _ wasn’t _ —”

“Your ass is like,  _ really _ red—”

“God, just—fuck my ass, Tucker—”

They snort, dissolving into snickers at the same time. Tucker’s forehead lands between his shoulder blades. “Sorry,” Wash says breathlessly. “Sorry, I shouldn’t—I like it. I promise.”

It’s too hard to form words, but Tucker seems to get it. “It’s cool. Just no false bravado, alright?”

“Alright. Swear.”

Tucker continues, harder this time, and the strikes have Wash melting instantly. By fifteen he is boneless against the door, palms and elbows and forehead pressed against the cold metal, the numbers slurring in his mouth. By twenty, Tucker is there, arms snaking around his chest, head tucked in between Wash’s shoulder blades. “Good. That was so fucking good, Wash. C’mon, you can let go now.”

Wash drops his arms from the wall, swaying back against Tucker, and Tucker takes his weight. “You okay?”

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Wash mumbles. Hips hips jolt forward as Tucker’s hand wraps around the base of his cock, pumping him slowly. “Nnngh…Tucker…please…”

Tucker’s lips find his ear, teeth gently tugging at his earlobe. “Gonna put you in this chair now. Can you sit?”

Wash nods, letting Tucker lead him across the room. There’s the sound of some shuffling, and then Tucker directs him back to sit on the metal chair, the same one he’d fucked Tucker in. He hisses, shifting his weight on his tender, abused skin, and Tucker curses. “Ah, shit—okay, hold on…”

Wash hears the sound of Tucker movie around the room before Tucker tugs him briefly back to a stand. This time when he sits again, it’s on something soft, as if Tucker put a towel or blanket on the chair. “Better?”

“Mmm, yeah,” Wash sighs. “Much.”

“Good. Now stay.”

As if he’d ever move. Wash nods again, and after another minute, Tucker’s back, tugging his arms back down by his sides. Wash tilts his head as Tucker begins to secure his arms to the chair—it’s not the handcuffs or his belt, but it’s not the fabric restraints either. It’s something else, something softer than the cuffs but more secure than the fabric. He likes it, likes it a lot, and when Tucker begins to tie his ankles to the base of the chair, he groans a little. “Wha…”

“Rope,” Tucker says. He gives Wash’s calf a squeeze. “Too soft?”

“Mmm, no, it’s good.” He tugs against the ropes, but they don’t budge, and a pleased tingle runs through his bones.

Tucker’s hand winds through his hair as he stands, his lips by Wash’s ear once more. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

“Yes,” Wash says immediately. “Yes, please…”

Still, it takes a few minutes for Tucker’s words to penetrate the haze that’s settled into his brain. He’s tied to this chair, which means their options are limited, which means—

The pop of a bottle opening confirms his thoughts, and Wash groans, tugging against his bonds. “Oh, god…oh, Tucker, I want to watch, please…”

Tucker snickers, but moments later the makeshift blindfold is gone, and Wash blinks as his eyes adjust. Tucker has turned off the artificial lighting, letting only the natural light of the setting sun stream into the room, and Wash’s breath catches in his throat. Tucker is standing naked in front of him, the sun falling across his body in streaks of red. He’s coating his fingers liberally with lube, and he doesn’t break Wash’s gaze as he tosses the bottle aside, braces one hand on Wash’s shoulder, and reaches the other between his legs to open himself up.

Wash doesn’t tear his eyes away from Tucker’s face for even a second. Tucker’s mouth falls open as he fucks himself, hand reaching around occasionally to give his dick a few strokes before returning to his asshole. Wash isn’t sure if Tucker is putting on a show or if he really is this loud when he touches himself, and he doesn’t care. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his entire life, and by the time Tucker is ready, Wash is practically humping the air in frustration. “Tucker….”

Tucker grins at him lazily, fingers still working in and out of himself. “Yes, baby?”

“Tucker, please—I want you—”

There’s the barest flash of something in Tucker’s eyes at those words—vulnerability, or maybe hope—but it’s gone as quickly as it came. Tucker stops touching himself and kisses Wash once, fiercely, before he begins to straddle Wash’s lap. “You got me.”

Wash is practically trembling in anticipation as Tucker wraps a fist around the base of Wash’s cock and lowers himself onto it, inch by inch. By the time he’s seated in Wash’s lap, they’re both panting. Wash desperately tries to hold himself still, hips moving in tiny jerks as Tucker adjusts, arms wrapping around Wash’s neck. “Feel so good,” Wash moans. He leans forward until his head clunks against Tucker’s and tries not to lose his mind entirely. “God, Tucker…you feel….so…good…”

Tucker says nothing, just twines his fingers in Wash’s hair, pulling his head back to look him in the face as he starts to move. “Go on, baby,” Tucker murmurs. “Go on and fuck me good.”

Wash obliges, hips snapping up eagerly the next time Tucker drop back down. It’s been a long time, a  _ long _ time, since he was inside of someone, but he’s pretty sure it never felt  _ this _ good. He can’t decide where to look: at Tucker’s face as he tips his head back in pleasure, at Tucker’s hips as he rolls them up and down, at Tucker’s hand as he begins to jerk himself off. He wants to burn all of these images into his brain, wants to never forget the way Tucker whines his name, the way he presses his lips messily to Wash’s, the way his hair tumbles into his face. Beautiful. All of him, beautiful.

Tucker speeds up as he gets closer to his release, bouncing in Wash’s lap and pulling frantically at his own cock. His breath hitches just before he comes messily all over Wash’s stomach, and Wash groans at the sight. Tucker’s eyes flutter, open and closed, his pacing never faltering for a second, and Wash isn’t far behind, moaning Tucker’s name as he comes.

Tucker continues to ride him until they’re both spent, pressing his lips everywhere he can reach. Wash closes his eyes as Tucker begins to stand, his body swaying against the ropes. He tries to stand when Tucker unties him but doesn’t quite make it, so he gives it up and lets Tucker handle it. Tucker swings one of Wash’s arms over his shoulders and guides him to the bed, where Wash flops, face down. He can’t quite be certain of anything right now, but he thinks he can say with confidence that he’s never going to move again.

He’s just opening his eyes blearily to look for Tucker when he feels something cold on his ass. Wash gasps, trying to lift his head, but it takes too much effort and he flops back down. He hears Tucker laugh a little, then feels the cold sensation once more, and Tucker’s hands pressed soothingly against his backside. “It’s okay, dude. It’s just lotion.”

“Cold,” Wash mumbles into the pillow.

“Yeah, I had it in the fridge before this.”

“S’nice. How…”

He means to ask how Tucker knew to do that, but he can’t quite form the words. “Because I’m awesome,” Tucker says breezily, smoothing it across Wash’s skin. “…alright, fine, I read an article online about putting this shit in the fridge. Seemed legit, though.”

Wash nods his assent, eyes slipping closed. All too soon, he’s prying them back open again when Tucker’s hands leave him. He’s wiping his hands off on a towel, looking at Wash somewhat nervously. “Stay?”

The word leaves Wash before he can even think, and Tucker’s mouth twists slightly. “Dude, yeah. Fuck yeah, I’m gonna stay. I’m not gonna leave. I swear. I shouldn’t have—yeah. I’m staying.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed with Wash, hesitating before combing his fingers through Wash’s hair. Wash can’t stop himself from moaning slightly, and Tucker laughs, delighted. “Oh shit, you like that? Just fucking wait, I give awesome head massages…”

He’s not exaggerating. Wash makes noises the entire time Tucker plays with his hair, little moans and sighs and noises that can really only be described as purrs. “What else, dude? You sore?”

“No…just keep…touching my hair…forever…”

Tucker snorts, obliging him for a few more minutes before swinging himself onto the bed to flop next to Wash. He pulls Wash against him, running hands up and down his arms, paying special attention to his wrists. Wash is just starting to drift off to sleep when Tucker startles.

“Oh, shit,” Tucker says suddenly, trying to sit up. Wash pushes off of him, blinking groggily as Tucker holds something out to him. “I forgot. You should eat that. And you need to drink water. Fuck, how did I forget the water thing?!”

Wash takes the canteen and a new object from Tucker’s hands, startled to see that it’s a chocolate bar—real chocolate, the kind he hasn’t had in god knows how long. “Where did you get this?”

“Kimball has a secret stash,” Tucker says shiftily. “She gave one to me.”

“She gave one to you, or you stole it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tucker gestures. “You gonna eat that or what?”

Wash takes a sip of water before he tears open the wrapper, taking a dutiful bite of his chocolate. The noise that escapes him is borderline obscene, but Wash doesn’t care. All he cares about is getting this chocolate in his mouth as fast as possible. “Oh, my god…”

“Jesus Christ, if I’d known it was gonna get that reaction, I would’ve stolen you chocolate years ago.”

“A-ha! So you did steal it!”

Tucker rolls his eyes, unscrewing the lid on his canteen and passing it to Wash. “Shut up.”

Wash smiles a little, eyes dropping back to the chocolate. He feels  _ good _ , better than he has in a long time, better than he thought he had the right to ever feel again. He isn’t sure what he did to deserve to be taken care of like this, but—

“Dude, are you  _ crying?! _ ”

“No,” Wash says immediately, but he’s too open, like this, raw and exposed in the best possible way. He wipes messily at his cheeks, eyes dropping to the chocolate in his lap. “I didn’t…”

Tucker drops back onto the bed next to him, hesitates, and runs a hand through Wash’s air. “You didn’t…?”

“I didn’t know I needed this,” he says in a rush, lifting up the chocolate.

“What, chocolate?”

“Yes. No. I mean, chocolate, but…all of this—you, I didn’t. Didn’t know I needed this, after.”

The next thing he knows, Tucker’s arms are around him, pulling Wash against his chest. “Well, you got it now.”

Wash sighs, eyes closing. “Thanks.”

“You shouldn’t thank me,” Tucker says, voice thick with what Wash recognizes as guilt. “I should’ve fucking…it’s my fault.”

“It’s not. We were being stupid.”

Tucker laughs a little. “We were, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Guess I can compromise with that.”

Wash pulls back a little to look him in the eye. “I think I can, too.”

Tucker nods, reaching out a hand to ruffle through Wash’s hair. “So, uh. Think we can make this work, or whatever? Think we can compromise?”

Wash looks at him, last rays of the dying sun caught in his dark hair, and kisses him. “I think,” he says, “that I want to try.”

Tucker kisses him, and it’s messy and sweet, like honey, like the chocolate Wash has been devouring. “Yeah,” Tucker says, as the sunlight burns red across the bed before vanishing completely. “Yeah. Let’s fucking try.”

They do.


End file.
